


beLIEve

by Excelsior10



Series: Incarnadine [5]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fascism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, Period Typical Attitudes, Prostitution, Referenced Torture, Sacrilege, blackouts/overdose, come children it is time for dinner and we're having a feast of angst :), explicit violence, mentions of child prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 119,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excelsior10/pseuds/Excelsior10
Summary: "When you are already standing in the shadow of the colossus, it does you no good to close your eyes."After all, together, fire and ice form stars.
Relationships: May Carleton/Tommy Shelby, OC/OC, OFC/OFC, Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Tessa Reilly
Series: Incarnadine [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538224
Comments: 404
Kudos: 197





	1. Ain't No Rest For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mliz12](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mliz12), [Lady_Of_Luck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Of_Luck/gifts), [befham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/befham/gifts).



> New readers:  
> Hello omg i don't know you but i already love u v much. if you'd like to start this series, i would begin with preying, as things become rather complex. also, buckle in. 
> 
> Returning readers:  
> "omg julia that last cliffhanger was so mean what will we do while we wait for the new story" WAIT?? you thought i was gonna make you wait... like i could have if i tried. i'm more excited about this than you are lmao 
> 
> "excuse me where is the playlist for this story" pft bitch i gotchu: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66ci2uzw7NC2muDoVnTcnt
> 
> This fic is dedicated to m, bef, and lady, because those queens have been with me from the goddamn start. i couldn't have done this without you, and i mean that more than you know <3
> 
> alright my lovelies, you know the drill. go 'head, get at it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked  
> Money don't grow on trees  
> I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed  
> There ain't nothing in this world for free  
> Oh no, I can't slow down, I can't hold back  
> Though you know, I wish I could  
> Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked  
> Until we close our eyes for good

* * *

_CALIFORNIA, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_

  
  


_1927_

A woman was walking down the cement sidewalk, hips swaying and heels clicking, the sound somewhat lost in the din of the city. The sun was hot and bright and her face was shadowed by a hat, her blouse a shimmering cream silk and her navy pencil skirt cut dangerously above her knees, pale legs on display. Her hair was a bright blonde and perfectly curled, her manicured nails sharp and red. She rather looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a magazine. 

A dog trotted by her side, so large she could have rested a hand on its back without bending her knees. Its movements followed hers closely, keeping its loping strides close. People stared at her as she passed, but perhaps less so than would ordinarily. This was Los Angeles, after all. The crackle of car tires on glittering asphalt followed her down the street, the vehicles flashing and extravagant. And _large._ If there was one thing in America she would never feel quite at home with, it was the massive size of their automobiles. The woman had hers imported. 

Perhaps if I told you her name, you could guess where from. 

A man passed by her close enough for their arms to brush, and she looked over her shoulder at him. The dog growled very faintly, and the man glanced down at it, then back at the woman, who smiled without showing teeth. Her fingers tightened around the dog’s leash, but the man turned, hurriedly, and continued on his way. The woman let out a tight, quiet sigh, her eyes downcast. 

“Goitse, love,” she said, quietly, and the dog huffed but turned its head back to her as the man rounded the corner. “No one hurts us now.”

  
  
  


_WARWICKSHIRE, ENGLAND_

  
  
  


_1927_

  
  
  


There was a dark room in a large manor. Articles of clothing, mostly women’s, were strewn across the floor. A man was sleeping on his back, naked, a naked woman curled under his arm, another with her leg thrown over his. The room was silent, but for breathing, the gentle tick of the clock on the wall, which read 4:17am, and the faint chirping of birds through the windows, which flanked the front of the handsome suite. The door opened with a soft creak. Footsteps crept soundlessly across the carpeted floor, and a fourth figure moved to stand over the man on his expensive sheets, and pulled out a sharp silver knife, the blade singing for a moment, very faintly, before the wielder held it to the man’s neck. 

His eyes opened, not blearily, not blinking in hazy confusion. They opened like a sheet being pulled off a weapon. They were a shockingly electric shade of blue. 

“You,” he said, his voice dull like the edge of the knife wasn’t, red blood gathering at the tip where it was pressed to his skin. It was shaking slightly. 

“You remember me?” Asked the woman holding it. Her hair was blonde, but not like the girl with the dog, shorter and more platinum and done in tight ringlets. The man looked down at the knife, unconcernedly. The dark haired woman on his arm began to stir. He sighed. 

“Should’ve gotten out, Victoria,” he said, and the blonde woman’s lips twitched like she was trying to stop a frown. 

“I am getting out,” she said, but her voice was unsure, and the man’s empty eyes seemed to latch onto the tremble of hesitation, a weak spot, an exposed neck. “They said all I had to do was kill you and then I could-,” 

The man clicked his teeth, moved his arm from its position rather abruptly, causing the brunette woman’s head resting on it to fall to the mattress, and he pulled a gun from under a pillow above her. Victoria flinched, and pressed the blade down harder. The man did not wince. He raised his eyebrows apathetically, long black lashes fluttering as he looked up at her. He flipped the gun in his hand, and offered her the grip. 

“Perhaps we can discuss... an alternative proposition,” he said, his voice low and calm, and the light dancing off of the silver against his skin shivered. 

  
  
  
  
  


_AMERICA_

  
  
  
  
  


The woman stepped through the revolving doors into a grand hotel foyer, marble floors and gilded accents everywhere to be seen. The doorman nodded at her with a slight smile which wavered slightly as his eyes fell to the huge dog at her side, and she returned it briefly, before crossing the floor and walking through another set of doors, the dog mirroring her movements like their reflections in the glossy gold panels decorating the walls. Through the handsome set of double doors, the soft hum of conversations in the lobby grew louder, voices rising to the vaulted ceilings in cries of joy and loss and bubbling overtones of excitement. The casino was busy for midday Wednesday, but the importance of time, like all other things, can be bought and traded for the right price. That is what money truly allows, the power to replace the schedules, the restrictions, even the days of the week, with a crisp hundred dollar bill. The woman’s footsteps _ticktickticked_ off of the beautiful, polished floor, the dog’s toenails clicking along, quieter, beside her. She made her way around the poker tables, where men in dashing suits and women in elegant dresses spared her no mind, consumed by blackjack, baccarat, chess, pool, a hundred other games to waste time and money because they all had so much of both they were, perhaps, looking for ways to rid themselves of the boredom that came with it. The woman kept walking. Through another door behind the bar, this one painted dark to blend in with the wallpaper, embossed with filigree and the words “Authorized Personnel Only”. Past it was a sprawling reception area, full of green plants and white orchids held in crystal vases on the desk, rugs covering the floor, leather armchairs and gleaming tables. She kept walking, the dog sniffing at the florals in the air. Down a hallway wide enough for five men to pass through, brightly lit by the light through the windows on one side, and then she came to stand before yet another door. This one had words on it, as well. She lifted a hand, and knocked. 

“Come in,” said a voice, and she pushed the door open, and as she did, the plaque on it gleamed. The boardroom boasted a table that could seat thirty and a space itself that could easily fit two hundred. It took the woman several seconds to cross to the bay windows, where a man was standing, his hands clasped behind his back. When she came to a stop, she was silent, the dog beside her still panting from the excessive outdoor heat. The man glanced down at it. If he cared whatsoever about its presence, he did not say so. His eyes behind his spectacles were serious and gray. 

“I leave for Manhattan tonight,” he said, his gaze returning to the windows, which he peered through with the keen intensity of a hawk. Palm trees fluttered past them in the very faint breeze. “You are still welcome to join me.” 

“You know I deplore New York,” the woman said, with a faint snap of her fingers. The dog sat on its haunches, watching the man watch the sky. “Besides, I told Emmy I would go with her to that film premiere. If I skimp out again, she’ll spread some horrid rumor about me and then you and I will both end up on the front page.” 

“Ah, yes,” the man said, turning from the glass plane and heading to a bar cart glittering with silver and amber and crystal. “She does have a particular fondness for a certain color of carpet. And I suppose you have starred in enough tabloids for your time.” 

“If you refer to breaking news as tabloids, then yes. More than enough.” 

The man’s smile was as sharp as his stare, both of which he turned to her as he was pouring an inch of clear liquid into a glass. 

“Shall I send someone to accompany you?” he asked, in a rather perfunctory way. She shook her head. 

“I have my own someone,” she said. “When will you return?” 

“Next week,” the man answered, straightening his black tie with his free hand. “If anything of importance occurs during my absence, call Marcel. I will likely be caught in meetings the majority of my stay.” The blonde woman nodded distractedly, scratching behind the dog’s ear with her nails, and the stub where his tail had been wiggled happily. “Let me know if there is anything else you require.” 

“Thank you,” the woman said, with a nod, and she turned to leave, and the man watched her, taking a delicate sip of his drink. 

“Tessa, darling,” he called, and she turned, an eyebrow raised in question. “Be careful,” he said, and somehow, it sounded like a warning rather than a request. The woman blinked. Her eyes were large and complex, green and gray and blue. 

“Of course,” she said, and continued to the door, dog on her heels. When she shut it behind her, she glanced back. ROCKEFELLER CORP. was proclaimed in bold letters, reflecting gold against her irises. She pressed her full lips together, and kept walking. 

  
  
  


_ENGLAND_

  
  
  
  


The other women had been sent scurrying off, once they had awoken to the sight of knives and guns, clutching handfuls of clothes in their arms as they left. The man sat on the edge of the large bed, now wearing black slacks, although he hadn’t bothered to button them, or to don a shirt. Several black tattoos flickered across his skin as it pulled over muscle, their designs uninterpretable in the low light, except for a sun’s rays that decorated one of his pectorals. He reached to a bedside table for a silver cigarette case, tossing a wayward pair of women’s underwear off it as he did so. 

“How’d you get in?” he asked the remaining woman, Victoria, as he stuck a white cig into his mouth, holding it between his lips as he lit up. The only answer was his own inhale. The woman stood silently, her eyes wide, looking trapped and terrified, despite having a knife in one hand and the man’s gun in the other. Neither were raised any longer. The man had a vibrantly red cut leaking a few drops of blood down the side of his neck, but he didn’t seem to care. It seemed entirely possible he hadn’t even noticed. He looked at her, scoffed, swiped a crystal tumbler half full of whisky from the same table and paused his smoking to swallow half of it in a gulp. The woman glanced at the clock, and the man just blinked at her. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “But the only way you get out of this house is if I allow it. So if I was you, I’d answer the question.”

“The- the girls,” she said. “They’re friends of mine. They left the gate unlocked. And the doors.” 

The man drug a hand down his face. 

“Fuckin' whores,” he said, and then he stood. Victoria took a step back. 

“Don’t hurt them,” she said, “It wasn’t their fault, I paid them to do it-,” 

“I know,” the man said, approaching, she took another step behind her, but he only walked past her to the mahogany dresser. 

“How did you know-,” 

“Because I didn’t. And whores are always getting paid by someone. If it isn’t you paying them, then ain't your idea of fucking that’s being bought.” 

Victoria’s chin was trembling. She had wide brown eyes that were skittering around the room for exits like a dry leaf in the wind. 

“You are a smart man, Mr. Shelby,” she said, quietly, and the Mr. Shelby in question pulled a white cotton undershirt over his head. 

“And you are not a stupid woman,” he replied, a bit of bite in his tone. “So tell me why a woman who _isn’t_ stupid would make the choices you have, despite the fact that she really ought to have learned better by now.” 

“They’re not my choices,” Victoria said, and the man turned to her. 

“Some of them ‘ave been,” he said, and for some reason, she dropped her eyes, mortification or horror brightening her cheeks with a blush. 

“I didn’t know who you-,” 

“Yes, you did,” interjected the man, who was now working on the buttons of his shirt, which had blue stripes that paled in comparison to his eyes. “Did you hate him, then? Your husband?” 

A line appeared on Victorias’s brow, a worried furrow like a tiny canyon of confusion. “I don’t know,” she said, softly, after a moment. “I thought I did, but to see him… like that…,” she trailed off. “It didn’t feel the way I expected it to.” 

Mr. Shelby plucked his cigarette out of his mouth to speak. “Suppose that’s probably a good thing,” he said, like he couldn’t relate in the slightest but admired her innocence, or maybe even envied it. 

“What would _you_ know of good things, Mr. Shelby?” Victoria asked, harshly, as if speaking of it had reminded her what had transpired, what she had come there to do. The man blinked. 

“Nothing, anymore,” he replied, shortly, and began putting on his tie, the top of his white collar touched with spots of red from the cut on his neck. 

  
  


_AMERICA_

  
  


“Vodka tonic, please,” the blonde woman told the bartender, and he looked at her with the nervous energy of all new workers when they first encountered a superior. Luckily, her drink was difficult to blunder. 

“Yes, madam,” he said, and Tessa slid into one of the high stools at the bar, the dog lowering to a crouch beside her, the leash set loose and curled on the floor. She tapped her fingers mindlessly on the countertop as she waited, counting the number of bottles lined on the wall behind the novice barman, quickly growing bored, and going back to her usual pastime of watching the guests, one of which was already staring at her. Tessa met her eyes for a moment, letting her gaze travel down her body, then turned away. She had never really preferred blondes, herself. Footsteps clacked behind her, strides long and purposeful and familiar, and she turned with a smile just as the bartender slid her drink towards her. 

“Hi, Ben,” she said, and Benson returned her grin before the dog had stood from its spot at Tessa’s feet to greet him with several slobbery licks on his hands. 

“Hey, Te- ugh, Rip, you’re drooling on me, mate,” the tall man named Benson said. He had neatly combed brown hair, and a scar on his right cheek, despite his easygoing demeanor. “You never drool on _her,_ it’s always me-,” 

“He likes you,” Tessa responded. “You should be honored. Suigh síos,” she added, to the Rottweiler, who obediently dropped back onto its haunches, grinning widely at Benson, pink tongue lolling. Benson sat onto the stool beside Tessa, lifting two fingers at the bartender. 

“Scotch whiskey,” he said, and Tessa felt rather strongly that his drink arrived much faster than hers had, with a smile added on top. She smirked at the glossy black counter and didn’t comment. 

“That woman is staring at you,” Benson said, in an undertone. Tessa nodded slightly. 

“I thought about it. Not really my type.” He smirked, slightly, but then worry pulled the corners of his mouth back down. 

“She could be-,” 

“She could be what? Perish? Irish? An undercover European ambassador sent to find me?” Tessa took another drink. 

“I was going to say, she could be admiring your jewelry,” he finished, and it was Tessa’s turn to smirk. 

“No, you weren’t,” she countered, and he tossed her a shrug. 

“So,” Benson said, after taking a swallow, “you headed home for the day?” 

“No,” Tessa said, reaching into her clutch and pulling out a case of cigarettes, the corner of which clinked against the steel of a pocket pistol. “We’re going out tonight, actually.”

Benson’s expression brightened, and then faded very suddenly. “With who?” he asked, bracing for the answer like he had just stubbed his toe. 

“Go get your tux, my love,” Tessa said, finishing the drink, the alcohol and the bubbles crisp and burning. “Bring the car around in an hour.” 

“Which one?” he asked, with rather a grumble. 

“You choose,” she told him, pecking his cheek. “I’ll even let you drive.” 

She waved to the bartender, and he fumbled a bit with the glass he was holding. 

“That’s still not worth it!” Benson called to her over his shoulder, and she ignored him, Rip striding smoothly by her side, the leash trailing behind him. 

  
  
  


_ENGLAND_

  
  


“Explain it to me, then,” Mr. Shelby said, downing the rest of his drink. Victoria bit her lip. 

“My family owed a debt. To… them. And they couldn’t pay it.” 

“So they sold you?” the man asked, brusquely. The woman shook her head. 

“I offered,” she said, and he looked mildly surprised. “You’re not the only one who would do anything for family,” she insisted, which he chose not to reply to, blinking slowly, fastening his cufflinks. He made a gesture for her to continue. “So I married him. It was alright for a while. Crime is good business, and he didn’t want me for anything other than a fuck and a kid. But I… turns out I could only do one.” The man’s eyes flashed to her, flickering with something, for the first time, in their cold depths. “He started getting violent after I lost the third baby. I was just surprised it had taken him that long.” Her eyes glistened, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. Mr. Shelby’s expression was flat. 

“You’ve come to the wrong man for sympathy, sweetheart,” he said, softly, and she inhaled sharply. 

“You asked,” she said, and he shook his head, slipping his arms through a black leather shoulder holster. 

“I asked you to tell me about your motivations. Not your fucking life story. Get to the point.” 

She covered the flash of hurt quickly, but still not quickly enough, and the man looked deeply apathetic, slipping golden rings onto his blunt fingers. 

“They talked about you. Said the Blinders were pulling out of deals, disrupting trade routes, that Dublin would start to notice. They said you started with twenty men and now you control half the south. Christ, George _hated_ you. They stationed me in the club, told me to keep an eye out, and then I saw you, and I…,” she gave a slight shrug. “I thought I was due for a little revenge.” 

“You got more than a little,” Mr. Shelby told her, taking two steps closer. He was wearing gleaming black dress shoes. 

“Yes,” Victoria said, under her breath, blinking quickly. 

“Normally,” he said, suddenly brisk and businesslike, “I would send you back to them, have you deliver information to me. But they sent you here to get rid of you. You’re just a warning. They don’t want you back.” Victoria inhaled, relief or shock. “That isn’t a good sign,” he told her, and her face fell. “They’ll send someone to kill you, once they find out I didn’t. So it seems,” he continued, unconcernedly, taking another step. Victoria stood, frozen. “That your life rests in my hand. Raise another weapon to me, and I’ll close my fist.” He took another step, standing before her, and held out his palm. She passed him the gun with shaky fingers, and he slid it into the holster under his arm, and the knife, which he sheathed and slid into his pocket. 

“You’re going to America. There’s someone I need you to find. Welcome to the Peaky Blinders,” he said, and he brushed past her and out the bedroom door. 

  
  
  


_AMERICA_

A man held the door of the suite open for Tessa, and she walked through it, undoing the backs of her earrings. 

“Baby!” She called, “come say hello to me, I’ve got to go to a party!” 

There was a high shriek and a toddler came toppling around a corner in the penthouse, her chubby arms outstretched. An older woman trailed after her, a smile on her face. 

"Momma!" The girl cried, as Tessa crouched down to her,

“She missed you,” the nanny said, a kind note in her voice, and Tessa pressed kisses to her daughter's cheeks. 


	2. Blood In The Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess I’m contagious it’d be safest if you ran  
> Fuck, that’s what they all just end up doing in the end  
> Take my car and paint it black  
> Take my arm, break it in half  
> Say something, do it soon  
> It’s too quiet in this room
> 
> I need noise  
> I need the buzz of a sub  
> Need the crack of a whip  
> Need some blood in the cut

_WARWICKSHIRE, ENGLAND_

  
  
  
  


Tommy strode out of the front doors of Arrow House with Victoria trailing along behind him like a timid ghost. Two cars were parked in the drive, one a dignified tan and one a glittering gunmetal, and Polly was standing before the former with her arms and expression cross(ed). 

“What the fuck is this, Thomas?” she asked, giving Victoria a sweeping appraisal and then turning back to watch his approach. She never liked to look his whores in the eyes if she could help it. Tommy coughed into a closed fist and ignored her, but had an unfortunate premonition that the questions had only just begun, and, dependable as ever, she snapped, “What happened to your neck?” 

This was not what he had expected her to say. His hand shot up instinctually, and the pads of his fingers came away dabbed in slick red. He shut his eyes for a fortifying moment and yanked open the door of the gray motorcar, which read _SHELBY_ in bold lettering across the boot, as did Polly’s. He still had the Bentley and Bugatti, but the choice to drive his own merchandise was hardly for advertisement’s sake. The new Shelbys could outstrip the average motorbike off the line, he had supervised the production of his model personally. He realized that while he had been thinking about cars, Polly had apparently continued her verbal assault, Veronica’s face half in shadow as she kept huddled in the alcove of the foyer. 

“- you think you’re doing? Thomas?” his aunt finished, and he blinked at her, said, 

“No,” flatly, because the question itself didn’t really matter, twenty to one, that would have been his answer no matter the prompt. Polly fumed, sending the peacock feather on her hat all aflutter. 

“Who is she?” she snapped, and he slid past where she was attempting to block his progress with her arm and into the driver’s seat. 

“Our new recruit. Call Finn, have him take her to collect her belongings and then drive her to the docks. Tell him not to stop for anything.” He attempted to reach for the door and she stuck out a hand to prop it open. This time, he didn’t have the patience to hold his tongue. 

“Polly, you’re in me fuckin’ way,” he told her, and when she didn’t budge, he rolled his eyes and started the engine with a velvet rumble, lurching the car forward and slamming the door shut the moment he had pulled it a few centimeters away from her hand. The fury in her eyes burned him through the windows, but he put the transmission into gear anyway and sped off, before another woman tried to kill him, _Jesus fucking Christ, it wasn’t even 7am,_ and he thought with an internal wince about what that likely said about the rest of his day’s prospects. 

  
  
  


_LOS ANGELES, UNITED STATES_

  
  
  


Tessa had rather assumed that the glitz and the glamour would eventually fade to a hazy glow, but it hadn’t, every time she stepped onto the scarlet carpet, every time she zipped up an evening gown, heard the chatter of voices and the pop of champagne she was sharper, heightened, like a deer that had caught and recognized the scent of the hunter. She attended when it was required of her, and loathed the frequency, and lived for it. Without the snow of days past, her veins did not thrum any longer, there was a hollowness to them, like they had run dry, and the parties were the closest she could get to feeling a heartbeat. Except when she was with Stella. 

“Hand mommy those shoes, my love,” she said, and her daughter skittered over the satin chaise and over to the other side of the walk-in closet, if your idea of a closet was something with enough space to house several small elephants. Stella presented Tessa proudly with the box, the sparkle of the heels nestled in tissue paper glimmering in her wide eyes. Wide, bright blue eyes, lighter than a cloudless sky. 

“Mommy go party?” Stella asked, scrambling up onto the slippery seat beside Tessa where she was buckling the heel onto her foot. She was a quiet girl, but she moved fast. Sometimes, she moved just like-, 

“Yes,” Tessa said, to interrupt her own thoughts. “With Auntie.” 

“Can I go too?” Stella asked, and Tessa laughed and bent over to kiss the top of her head, soft hair tickling her lips. 

“I wish,” she said. “It would be much better with you there. Other shoe now, love. Thank you,” she said, taking the glittery heel from Stella’s small hand. “Were you good for Mrs. McCraken today?” 

“Yes,” Stella said, kicking her feet a bit. Sometimes, Tessa still marveled at how _small_ she was, other times it felt like she grew a foot a day. “We painted.” 

“Yeah?” Tessa said, with a smile. “What did you paint?” 

Her daughter observed the shoes, the dressing room lighting sending sparkles to land in her blonde hair like stars. A little celestial, all of Tessa’s own. 

“Fire,” she said, softly, her mother drew back, “a big huge one.” And goosebumps rose down Tessa’s bare arms. She slid off the bench to crouch in front of her, took her little face with its peach fuzzy cheeks in her hands. Stella blinked at her, pale lashes like white spider legs. 

“You’ve never seen a real fire, my love,” Tessa said, “and you never will. Paint the ocean for mommy next time, okay?” she asked, and Stella nodded, firmly. “We’ll go there tomorrow, all right? With Uncle Benny.” She grinned at that, wide and toothy, and Tessa stood, releasing a tight, shaky breath. “Okay, baby, I’ll see you in the morning. Mrs. McCraken will put you to bed.” Stella pouted a bit, with a stuck out lower lip, pink as a flower. Tessa _tsked_. “We don’t have to go swim, you know. Maybe Uncle Benny and I will go and leave you here with Mrs. McCraken.” 

“I don’t _wanna_ stay with Mrs. McCraken,” Stella whined, “she smells like... ham!” 

Tessa had to slap a hand over her mouth to stop herself from setting a bad example with her laughter, but she wasn’t sure if it worked. Stella smiled, happy to make Tessa happy. 

“ _Stella,”_ Tessa said, fighting to keep her voice even, “you _cannot_ say that. Mrs. McCraken is very sweet and she takes good care of you for me. And if she heard you, wouldn’t that make her sad? _You_ don’t like it when other people make _you_ sad.” 

_John would have laughed at that, too,_ she thought, before she could help herself. _Arthur and Michael, as well._ But they weren’t her family anymore. They weren’t hers anymore. The only thing that was hers was slowly releasing her puckered lips, looking guilty. 

“I’ll tell her sorry,” she said, and Tessa choked. 

“It’s okay,” she told her, hurriedly. “You don’t need to do that. But you promise to behave?” 

Another, much less enthusiastic, nod. Tessa decided to take it. “Thank you, angel. I love you very much.” 

“Love you, momma,” Stella said, wrapping her arms around Tessa’s legs, which made her giggle and teeter on her heels. 

  
  
  
  
  


_WESTMINSTER, ENGLAND_

  
  
  
  


“-the Tories absolutely _decimated_ that last election,” Churchill was saying, tapping out fluttery black ash from the end of his cigar into a crystal tray that already had an inch of soot at the bottom. 

“Yes, rather fair weather of you,” Tommy said, crossing his ankle over his knee. Churchill grunted, shuffling a stack of papers before him. 

“Well, there will be others,” he said thickly, from around the fat cigar, “so I suppose we shall see.” He opened a wooden drawer, stared into it for a moment, then grunted like a hibernating bear, and shut it again. 

“There _will_ be others,” Tommy agreed, giving enough emphasis to his words that Churchill looked up at him, beady eyes made smaller by his squint. 

“If there is something you would like to address, Mr. Shelby, by all means, speak,” he said, “And speak clearly. I am not growing any younger.” Tommy cleared his throat, tapped his cigarette. 

“Despite a few setbacks, this... relationship has proved to be beneficial for both of us,” he said, evenly, watching the end of his smoke smolder off into the still air. “But there are ways I could be of more use to you.” 

Churchill’s thin eyebrows crooked, his equally thin lips puffing contemplatively. He observed Tommy for a long moment, the only movement the drifting smoke rings he sent gliding upwards. 

“The title wasn’t enough, eh?” he asked, finally, and Tommy blinked. “Tell me, Mr. Shelby, are you familiar with the tale of Icarus?”

“Members of the nobility frequently serve in the Commons,” Tommy admitted his desire outright to avoid answering the rather patronizing question, waving his hand slightly. “It’s hardly unheard of.” 

Churchill scoffed like he had made a guess and been proved right, a rolling, scoffing _hmmph._

 _“Nobility,”_ he said, rolling the word thickly over his tongue. “This from a man who became a Lord through arson, blackmail, and espionage, to name a few.” But the lines on his face were pulled in an expression close to respect, and Tommy gave a tiny, humorless smile. 

“I prefer the word “ambition”,” he said, and Churchill chuckled. 

“You should try telling that to the courts. I heard your appeal was approved. I do hope you have a plan for that. When you play the game, the higher you go, the harder the levels, and the farther the fall. And you can hardly hope to run a campaign while on trial for murder.” Tommy resisted the urge to begin tapping his foot. 

“It’s being dealt with,” Tommy said, “but I appreciate your concern.” 

“It’s His Majesty’s concern,” Churchill said, gruffly. “I was the one who convinced the Minister to issue you that summons, in case you require reminding about that.”

“Not in the slightest, sir,” Tommy said, “Although no doubt it would have been a much more efficient process if there was someone else leading our great country.”

“Careful, Mr. Shelby,” Churchill warned, but his lip twitched at the slightly mocking tone of Tommy’s flattery. “That’s nearly treason.” 

"I'll add it to the list,” Tommy replied, apathetically, and it was funny in itself that of all the people in the world, Winston Churchill would be the one to find his humor amusing. His hawk eyes glimmered like beetles behind his spectacles. 

“I bet it was quite the night,” the older man said, a little wistfully. Tommy cleared his throat, uncrossed his legs. 

“As I said,” he knew he ought to grin and bear it, swap war stories and a glass of whiskey worth more than its weight in gold, but instead, he stood. “Everything will be handled. Your name will never be tied to Colindale.” 

“See that it is not,” Churchill warned, with a nod of his glowing cigar. “I wish you luck, Mr. Shelby. And not only for my own sake.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tommy replied, but luck wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was power, and he would get it, and sink his teeth in and never let go. 

  
  
  


_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


The sun had begun a lazy decline, lighting up the sky behind the wispy clouds. Benson pulled to a stop in the drive of a sprawling Hollywood estate, complete with tinkling fountains and uniformed men working in the lawn, pruning down the topiaries and standing guard at the gate and front door. One of them approached the car, and Tessa rolled down her window to speak to him. 

“Hello, could you tell Mrs. Rockefeller that Tessa is here, please?” She asked, and he nodded quickly and turned. Tessa tapped her nails on the side of the door, then said, “Benson,” in a quiet, querying tone he found rather ominous. 

“What?” he asked, long-suffering. She turned to look at him, and he damned her for the desperate expression on her face, because it always made it impossible for him to refuse her. 

“I need you to do something for me,” she said, and he sighed. 

  
  
  


_SHELBY COMPANY LIMITED, LONDON OFFICE_

  
  
  


“Don’t you have a dinner reservation?” Lizzy asked in a forcibly bored tone the moment he stepped through the doors. 

“Fuck,” Tommy hissed, immediately spinning back around again. It was fucking Wednesday. He’d been so sure it was Friday, but when you don’t sleep, the days stretch out long as a cat’s shadow and you get ahead of yourself. In more ways than one. His mind was on a leash most often, running in circles. 

“Say hello to your lady for me, my lord!” Lizzy called tauntingly, as he slammed the door behind him. 

  
  
  


_HOLLYWOOD, LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


“Fucking hell, where _is_ she?” Tessa asked, going to check her watch before realizing she had replaced it with bracelets glittering with precious stones. Benson wondered vaguely how much money Tessa wore around her neck on any given day, but could hardly begrudge her for it. Since his permanent position at her side, his own financial standing had improved markedly. He had told her ad nauseam that it wasn’t necessary for her to continue to pay him a salary, but she always brushed him off. He also had a sneaking suspicion that she was still being given a rather hefty sum courtesy of Shelby Company Limited, so he found her generosity easier to accept. He liked that about her. He did _not_ like the way her foot was tapping like she was having some sort of fit. Quitting the snow had done nothing to soothe her irritated tics. 

“She _hates_ tardiness, she’s always going on about it. We’re going to miss the damn thing.” _Tap tap tap tap._ Benson rubbed his eyes. “Alright, that’s it, I’m going in there,” she said, sounding peeved, reaching for the handle of the car door, and then another vehicle shot past them suddenly from the huge garage attached to the sprawling mansion, Benson and Tessa both pulled out guns like rabbits from a magician’s hat, but the car just sped down the drive, squealing on the still-hot asphalt. 

“What…” Tessa muttered, going to open the door, 

“Tessa, Jesus, can you-,” He began, but she was already gone and he was left with no choice but to follow after her, using his longer strides to catch up. She was carrying her long black dress in her hands, demure, for her, or at least slightly less scandalous. Since arriving in the colonies, she had gone through several different stages of relative insanity, and the current trend seemed to be a personal wager over how much skin she could show without getting arrested. Benson wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about it, except that once, when they had been at a theatre that refused point-blank to allow a dog inside, Benson had had to break the nose of a man who wouldn’t take his hands off her. Usually, Ripper’s presence prevented such approaches. The one thing he couldn’t acclimate to was seeing her as a blonde. 

The men that had been stationed at the door were gone, in fact, the door was wide open. Benson kept his gun out. They hurried down the expansive halls, he rather got the feeling Tessa was making random turns, but the house was rich and lavish and emptier than Jesus’ tomb. Then Tessa heard a sound. _He_ bloody couldn’t, in fact, since the explosion on the green, his left ear had become mostly accessory. 

“Cover me,” Tessa mouthed, little gun glinting under the light of a chandelier hanging in the hall, and he nodded and they turned a corner into the master bedroom-, 

And Emmaline Rockefeller was huddled on a corner of the bed, clutching herself, and sobbing. 

  
  
  


_THE AMAFFI RESTAURANT, LONDON_

  
  
  


“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, from behind her, and she looked up in surprise, with the smallest quirk of her lips. The flickering candle on the table lit up her rosy cheeks with a soft golden glow. 

“You’re not,” she said, her voice smooth despite his sneaking. Always poised, she was, legs crossed and white napkin already laid neatly over her lap. “You’re actually a couple minutes early.” 

“Oh,” he said, sitting across from her. His back twinged momentarily, and he pulled out his cigarettes to numb it. “So. That meeting you had,” he said, and she looked more surprised than when he had walked up behind her. “How was it?” 

She raised an elegantly skeptical eyebrow. 

“Completely dull, and also completely unrelated to you.” She observed him like he was a horse she was considering purchasing. “You don’t have to pretend to be civil, Thomas. I know you’re only pandering.” 

“You’re right,” he said, with a sigh, shaking his head like she had caught him in the act. “I want something from you.” 

Her brown eyes flickered down to the glittering cutlery on the table for a moment, but he saw it, wondered if she was already making guesses in her head. She made a noncommittal, fluttery gesture. “A favor, then? What?” 

“I want to know…,” he leaned forward, face blank, “about your completely dull meeting,” he told her, stone-faced, and she gave him a cautious smile, like a butterfly blushing at the spider weaving it into the web. 

  
  
  


_HOLLYWOOD_

  
  
  


“T-Tessa?” Emmy hiccupped, and she wasn’t Benson’s favorite person by any stretch of the imagination, but it still twisted his gut, seeing her like that, shiny brown hair frazzled and black mascara dripping. Her chest was heaving like forge billows. 

“I’m sorry- I- He- We were- Why do you have a _gun?”_ she asked, and Tessa dropped her arm, like a cut string. She edged forward carefully, trying not to look threatening, which wasn’t something Benson imagined she had ever needed to attempt before and so was rather odd to witness. 

“Emmy?” she asked, softly, “What happened?” 

Emmy sniffed, a tremor moving through her shoulders. “It’s nothing,” she said, in a brave attempt at flippancy. Benson knew she was Tessa’s age, and that Tessa was, on occasion, still an impressively irresponsible person. But even still, Emmy had always _seemed_ younger, despite already having the twins and the marriage and the big house on the hill. He had heard enough about Tessa’s less-than-happy childhood to surmise why that might be. Emmy continued on mindlessly, like she wasn’t really sure what she was saying, “It’s nothing, just a silly… just a personal conversation, we- let me fix my face, and then we can go-,” 

“Emmy,” Tessa interjected, suddenly, “let me see your arm.” 

Emmy’s shoulders tensed and stilled. 

“No. Why?” she snapped, pulling it closer like Tessa might tear it off. “I’m quite alright, Tessa, truly, you’re being-,” 

Tessa strode across the room and yanked Emmy’s wrist up. The warm skin of her forearm was dappled with deep purple bruises, layers on green ones, layered on yellow. The colors made him sick to his stomach, but the shape that they were in was worse, the press of fingers squeezed tight enough to crack bone. Benson heard Tessa inhale sharply. He felt often, in this city, like they were on the part of the map that had yet to be discovered, sailing off into the mist and the darkness, hearing the echoing warning that _here there be monsters_ in their heads. But he had her, at least, and Stella. Emmy, despite all her so-called girlfriends and society parties and popularity, was alone, and he pitied her with an intensity that surprised him. Tessa’s pale face was hard. 

“You say the word, and I’ll set Ripper on him, I swear to God I will,” she said, and apparently that was not the consolation Emmy desired, because she gasped and went to strike her. Tessa flinched out of the way, but to be entirely fair, Stella probably could have managed to as well. The attempt really was dramatically poor. Benson was beginning to understand why Tessa never seemed to make female friends, but he was rather on her side. And then he realized that Emmy was very, very scared, and he wondered why that hadn’t occurred to him sooner. He was glad Tessa had put it together, at any rate, because she hadn’t reacted to the outlash in the way he would have expected her to, and was instead speaking to Emmy in a low, soothing voice. He thought wryly about who she had likely learned that particular tactic from, and began backing slowly out of the room, feeling rather more conspicuous than he would have preferred, wondering if there was a way to make Richard Rockefeller crash his splendid car into a very solid object without his own involvement being too obvious. 

  
  
  


_CHATSWORTH_

  
  
  
  


She had suggested going for a ride after dinner without really considering it, and was now giving herself a thorough mental chastisement over her impulsivity. Once every couple of months he would call, like she was a dental cleaning penciled into his calendar. And she would say yes to the pictures or the opera or splitting a bottle of his gin because each time she gave herself the same lecture, promised herself she would only go to tell him that an Earl wanted to double her already massive fortune by making her his bride, and she didn’t want to see any more of him or his cigarettes or his arrogant charm. And then every time, the moment he appeared, suddenly all she could think about was the way he looked in his spotless suits and the fact that he always _did_ call, after all, he never spoke about that other girl she knew he had had, not so much as a word. So she didn’t ask, and said yes to everything he did, because she was a damn fool, most likely, and a damn fool walking beside him to her stables to top it all off. She was trying to keep her eyes on the building and not on his profile, but it was a tricky thing. When they arrived, Tommy Shelby clucked gently, stroking the nose of a bay mare as she stuck her head through the gate to greet him with a nicker. She admitted to herself that it was hard, _quite_ hard, to imagine Tommy as anything other than… well, quiet. She thought that was why he liked her. It was certainly the quiet life, hers. Especially when weighed against what she had heard about the other side of his dealings (which was admittedly very little, and she much preferred it that way). 

“Hello, beautiful,” he muttered, softly. She found his attachment to Persephone, the oldest and gentlest of the lot, rather endearing, but was careful to keep her face even. She knew without needing to test the theory that too much of anything would have him on the road back to Birmingham that very night, but she couldn’t help herself from prodding, sometimes, at that frozen exterior. So when he asked her who she would be riding, instead of the cheeky response he had likely been expecting, she said, with a rather forced air of casualty, 

“I thought I might take Star, actually. It’s been too long since she’s been on the trails.” 

He blinked at her like he knew what she was up to, and that was it. Then he turned away, and said, 

“Your horse, do what you like,” and she didn’t know what to make of it all.

  
  
  


_LOS ANGELES_

  
  


The sun had set, and they had never made it to the premiere. Tessa had asked Benson to drive home because her fingertips were still shaking with anger, and she was selfishly grateful and incredibly disappointed and deeply relieved when she saw Stella asleep in her bed, curled into a tight half-moon, her flaxen hair splayed out behind her head on the pillow. It was odd that something so small could make Tessa feel so many swirling emotions at once. It nearly knocked the wind out of her, sometimes, when she saw her daughter, and it left room for nothing else inside of her. Which was good, because there was nothing else left. She told herself there was nothing else left. But Emmy, huddled over like she was still trying to defend from her husband’s blows (“He said no woman of his would leave the house dressed the way I was,” she had told Tessa, after a half hour of cajoling), had brought the blood rushing through her ears until she was sick with the fury of it, sick with the rush it brought her. 

She smoked a joint on the balcony of their 27th floor, the one at the very top. _Do the Gods try to climb as we do?_ She wondered, _What is there past the heavens?_ And the smoke and the musings made her think of blue eyes and black coats and cynicism, and Benson stepped up beside her, a welcome distraction. She rested her head against his shoulder, or as close to it as she could reach, and the sound of the late-night traffic filtered up from below them, shrill sirens and faint voices and the whisper of the wind. 

“Why is it I only enjoy the city when I’m not actually in it,” Benson asked, quizzically, and she laughed softly. 

“Most things feel that way, I think,” she said, and she felt his hum echo through his chest. They were silent for a few beats, listening. She took another hit and wrapped her embroidered shawl tighter over her shoulders. He smelled like he usually did, like sassafras and soap, and the heavy smoke clung to the air that was hot and thin. 

“Tess,” he said, and his voice was serious. “We need to talk.” 

She stiffened. “Look, if it’s about the thing I asked you do to, I know we need to be cautious, but-,” 

“It’s not that,” Benson said, his thoughtful eyes trained on the lights of flickering below. He paused, and took a breath, reaching for a drag of her spliff.

“This cut?” he asked, before inhaling, and she nodded. He took his time, breathing white that intermingled with the wispy clouds in the hazy sky. “Stella called me “dad” yesterday.” 

Tessa was silent, struggled for a bit, and managed a small, “Oh.”

“You need to tell her, Tess,” he said, imploringly. “She’ll start to ask questions eventually. What we’re doing isn’t exactly conventional-,” 

“I told her that he died,” Tessa said, rather more sharply than she intended. “She’s too young to understand. I’m not sure what else you expect from me. Better you than Edward, anyway.” Benson grunted in agreement, but was still staring at the horizon with a weighty sort of look in his eyes. 

“Listen…,” he said, turning back to her, the tension in his face drawing the scar tight across his left cheek, “as someone who has to lie every day about who I am, know that when I tell you that secrets have a cost, it’s no lecture. It’s the truth. Coming from a place of experience, and good intentions. It’s what’s best for her in the long run.” From below them, police sirens wailed. Multi-colored lights glittered orange and blue and red from below them, like glitter trailed from God’s pocket. 

“What’s best for her in the long run is to stay in the fucking race,” Tessa retorted, and Benson scoffed slightly, shaking his head in affront or disbelief. 

“You know whose voice I heard that in? The _only_ other person on the whole bloody planet who would ever even consider lying about something like this-,” 

“I’m not _lying,”_ she argued, “you are entirely aware of what I’m doing, and why, because I _told_ you about it before you signed on, so don’t-,” 

“This isn’t about any of that,” Benson said, his words loud, for him, but Tessa was tight-jawed and vengeful. “This is about Stella, and you’re angry because you know I’m right.” 

“Well, you aren’t her mother.” There wasn’t an inch of give in her tone or her posture, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “And you’re not her father, either.” He flinched, slightly, the backlash already on the tip of his tongue due to the events of the night. 

“Suppose I should count my blessings, then, because if I was, she wouldn’t have a bloody clue I existed, nor I her!” 

“Watch your tone-,” 

“Mommy?” a voice asked from the doorway to the balcony, left ajar, and they both froze, “Uncle Benny?” 

“Shit,” Tessa hissed, immediately stubbing out the smoldering, forgotten joint, and raised a warning finger at him, nails sharp enough to pluck out his eyes if he disobeyed, then turned to her daughter. Stella’s huge, luminous eyes seemed to take up half her face. Benson was rather convinced that she blinked less often than other children, there was a weight to her gaze that was disconcerting to see in a toddler. Benson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how it was he had ended up on the balcony of the penthouse of the Ritz, raising a child that wasn’t his. Sometimes, he had a difficult time reminding himself that she _wasn’t_ his, other times when he looked at her all he could see was the eyes. 

  
  
  


_CHATSWORTH_

  
  
  


The night was still and silent and warm, crickets chirping quietly and a cooling breeze whispering through the tops of the trees. The horse’s hooves clopped gently against the soft ground, and Tommy was quiet, as he was wont to be, staring up at the sky, the moonlight catching on the edge of his jaw and hollowed cheeks like the lighting of an artist’s masterpiece. 

“So,” she said, over Star’s gentle snort, the rustle of her silky black mane. “Can you read my future up there?” 

Usually, despite his prickly demeanor, he was good for taking the mickey. Probably had something to do with growing up beside four other siblings. Tonight would seem to be the exception, of course. His face closed and he looked down. He was still wearing his cap, though she couldn’t fathom the reason, as the sun had set two full hours ago. 

“Better off not knowing,” he said, in his deep voice and rough words, and she eyed him curiously. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, and he didn’t answer, keeping the grey stallion he was riding at an easy walk. It was like talking to a tree, sometimes, except that trees didn’t make you feel like you were being examined under a microscope when you looked at them. She sighed slightly. She wanted to ask if he was aware of how vexing he could be, but she didn’t, because rhetorical questions were a waste of breath. Instead, she said, 

“So, did you have a bad day, or...?” 

He exhaled a sharp, mocking breath. “It was... very eventful.” Which, infallibly, told her absolutely nothing at all. She rolled her eyes slightly to herself, and then she was asking, 

“Why don’t you ever talk about her?”, the words spilling out like liquor from the bottle, before she could get the cork back in, and he pulled his horse to a stop. 

“What? Who?” To his credit, he seemed genuinely confused, which was also irksome, because she never knew when he was faking or playing pretend or what he was really _thinking,_ hardly ever, at all, and Christ, eventually she was going to need _something._ She felt like he owed her at least that. It had been bloody long enough. He seemed to disagree, a muscle flickering in the angle of his jaw and a warning expression on his face, sloping nose and high cheeks and plush lips all set in ice like a warning sign. She plowed on. It was too late now, she might as well. 

“That girl. The one you bought Star for. You were supposed to _marry_ her, Thomas, and I’ve never heard you so much as speak her name.” 

His eyes were cold and colorless in the dark, two bright, gleaming pricks of light. 

“Should I be asking you about your dead husband?” he bit, deadpan, and she would’ve smacked him if they hadn’t been mounted, sprawling estate and higher-echelon expectations be damned. 

“Touchy subject, then, I take it?” she retorted, and he glared for a half second that was still long enough to send a chill down her spine, clicked his tongue at the stallion, turned its head around and nudged it into a trot, then a graceful canter, back to the manor, and May cursed and kicked in her heels to catch up. 

  
  
  
  


_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


“I don’t understand,” Tessa was saying, much quieter now, sitting in a crisp white beach chair on the balcony. Stella’s arrival had knocked some sense back into them, and the little girl was now sleeping on her mother’s chest, their blonde hair an identical shade, even if Tessa’s was artificial. Their voices were low, now, and even, lest they disturb the resting child. “Last time you saw the man you blackened his eye. I didn’t realize you cared for him so deeply.” She cocked her head slightly, a knowing expression on her face. “Tell me this isn’t just because he’s fit.” 

Benson huffed a laugh. “No,” he said, Tessa stroked Stella’s hair gently, her long fingers combing through the silky strands and letting them fall back down like drifting threads of gold. “I clobbered him ‘cause he shot you and he deserved it.” Her eyes dropped and closed for a moment. He didn’t particularly like bringing it up unless she did, and he wouldn’t even need a whole hand to count the number of instances of _that._ Once, after two full bottles of wine. Again when she woke from a nightmare. He wasn’t sure she let herself remember it otherwise. “I didn’t hate him, by any means. It’s not about me, anyway,” he said, ashing his cigarette into a tray that probably cost more than his parent’s house. “He is bloody fit, though,” he admitted, hoping to make her laugh, but she was staring down at Stella’s closed eyes with a face like someone had jabbed a rusty iron pole into her stomach, and he felt suddenly guilty again for insisting she relive all the pain. 

“I… don’t know how to tell a child... that her real father lives halfway across the world, doesn’t know about her, and is the head of a razor gang.” She said it like she couldn’t quite believe any of it was true, herself. Benson glanced at Stella’s soft, sleepy face, and was glad that the heat of the day hadn’t quite disappeared. He didn’t want her to get cold. 

“Make sure to mention her queer godfather. And mad stepfather. And brute uncle. That’ll really put a bright spin on things,” he mumbled, and Tessa frowned. 

“You’re not being very useful.”

“That was just the ones on this continent,” he joked, and she shot him a thin-eyed look. “Sorry,” he said, and he was. Sorry he hadn’t found a way to get her out of this mess when he could have done. “I’ll help you word it better, if you’d like.” 

She was quiet for a moment, Stella murmured gently against her neck. 

“Ben,” she said, sudden and soft. He hummed a question mark in response. “You’re a wonderful father,” she said, and her smile was small and sad but he took it anyway. 

“You’re worrying,” he said, because she was. Her arched eyebrows were furrowed together and the hand that wasn’t stroking Stella’s head was fluttering its delicate fingers. 

“What are we going to do about Emmy?” she asked, and Benson shrugged, and sighed, suddenly tired. 

“What is there to do that we aren’t already? Just takes time,” he said, and her lips pursed and nose twitched like a rabbit. A plane flew low overhead, the engine droning, and their eyes met in an unspoken moment. Tessa looked back down, the frown returning, deeper.

“She said she’s been drawing fire,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows. 

“That’s… good?” he said, and Tessa looked like she was going to mimic his shrug before she remembered Stella resting a chubby cheek on her shoulder, a wisp of soft hair fluttering over her cherubic face as she breathed. 

“Doesn’t feel good,” Tessa murmured, concern still tugging on her forehead, in the shadows under her dark eyes. “Polly always said it’s in the blood.” 

“She’s your blood, too,” Benson said, and Tessa scoffed somewhat and muttered, “God help her,” under her breath. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever I have been BUSY ew and also I COULD FUCKING NOT pick a song  
> also here's the link to my Tumblr, a couple of people have been saying they can't find it: 
> 
> https://3xc3lsior.tumblr.com


	3. Breaking My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk  
> Happiness or vanity  
> Where do you find your clarity?  
> How do you get off? Who do you call God?  
> Nevermind, just stare at me  
> Let it kill you, then tell all your friends  
> Pretty people make the pages of the DSM
> 
> Give it away, give em a taste  
> Yeah, you got nothing to lose  
> Pick up the pace  
> Put on a face  
> It's all about you, yeah  
> It's all about you
> 
> I've been breaking my bones  
> Following ghosts  
> For all of the stars to come down  
> For all of the stars to come down  
> And we fashion our souls  
> For the likes of a ghost  
> For all of the stars to come down  
> (Come back, come back, come down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I edit this At All? no sir. have it anyway. im about to have a truly fucking miserable day at work and I need the dopamine I get from talking 2 u guys tbqh

_1927_

_ENGLAND_

He didn’t know where she was. He assumed she had changed her name and seriously doubted she was in the country. He knew she was alive because the company account under her name remained open, for the most part, that was all. He had a habit of depositing money into it with the same regularity he kept up with his whores, but he wasn’t entirely sure why, because instead of dulling the bubbling acid in his stomach all it did was make the voice in his head scoff mockingly and tell him time and time again _Too little, too late,_ and he would snap back that he fucking knew that, thanks, and then would realize he was having another mental conversation with himself and that shit like that ended you in a room with padded walls, and yet, a couple days or weeks later, he would find himself at the bank with pounds in his hand like penance and inevitably begin the whole useless cycle anew, and no matter how much green he earned it was never enough to soak up all the red. Even for him, it would seem, the cost of blood was too high. 

It wasn’t desperation. It wasn’t a bribe, as if she would have given in to it even if it had been. It was guilt, distilled to nauseating potency, like something dead and rotten inside him that he couldn’t remove. The company had funds for those affected by his family, after all. Mothers whose children had been cruelly taken from them before their time, all because of him. 

He figured she met the qualifications. 

He had a photograph of her, but only the one, a clipping from the newspaper article printed the night after the party, so he kept it folded in his chest pocket next to Ada’s letter and carried them around like talismans. He liked the way she looked in it, but that was hardly a surprise. Even caught mid-step by the reporters, as she had been when it was taken, she was resplendent in her emerald gown, so dark in the monochrome photo, glancing over her shoulder. Before… well, before. No ring on her finger or matching, round hole in her arm. 

She had left her things, and he had burned them and regretted it the moment he lit the match, regretted it and yet would have done it again. That seemed to be his mantra regarding most everything, these days. She was alive. They were all alive, except, of course, for the one who had never gotten the chance to be, and he went over and over it in his mind, every moment, every detail, as he lay awake at night trying to imagine how it could have all played out differently, as if that would do anything at all. Sometimes the voice in his head sounded like her. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of red hair and whip his head around and the sinking emptiness would return a split second later when he saw that the shade was wrong, always, too dull or too carrot or too lifeless, sometimes he stared into the fire until it looked like the shifting, shimmering strands, until he thought he could see her there, dancing just out of his reach. 

It couldn’t have been farther from the truth. She was long gone, far gone, but he had kept her perfume and would open the crystal bottle until it was all he could smell, until it burned his nostrils like poppy smoke and he flung it into the fire, where it exploded in a rush of flame that nearly caught on the curtains and had sent Francis scurrying up the stairs to see what the commotion was, Karl peeking out from behind her. He asked for coffee in the mornings, sometimes. Two sugars and no cream. Francis would purse her lips and hold back her comments. He really ought to give her a raise. But given that he hadn’t the faintest what he was currently paying her, that was a rather tall order. Karl was learning piano, and violin, and latin, and seemed to revel in all of them. Tommy rather thought she would have grudgingly approved. If the intentional reminders were unfortunate (and unavoidable, sadly, it was as if he had no choice but to force himself to be thrown back into it), it was nothing to the memories, which were a fun house of knives. 

So, no, he wasn’t particularly keen on people fucking mentioning it to him. He had assumed that May would, at first, but after such a long silence, he had started to hesitantly believe perhaps it would never come up. Lucy had asked about her the fucking moment they had walked through the hotel doors the night they had met, after all. Women were like wolves when it came to that sort of thing. That’s why he had one as his Treasurer. May was different, then, fine. It was her timing, more than anything, that had bothered him, because he had been looking at that fucking constellation and thinking about a girl in a white dress with a slash across her abdomen like someone had sliced her with a sword. So he rode back to the sprawling estate and left May in his dust and couldn’t manage to rebuke himself for it. 

He sat hunched with his elbows resting on his knees and looked into the fire. He could hear, as if simply turning up a radio dial, a whine of static, and the growl of a plane, and the cracking screams of falling and fallen men. Under that, a deeper, ominous rumble, the very earth shaking around him, caving, collapsing-, 

He released a short breath and shook his head sharply, drug his hand down his face. His skin felt dry, and warmed by the flames, he fought the urge to take a drink from his little brown bottle, cradled in his pocket against the letter and photograph. He took it out, and the image with it, the edges crinkled and fading. 

  
  
  


1924 

  
  
  
  


He sat down in the spindly chair next to her bedside and put his head in his hands, because his knees and neck had buckled like neither of them could support any weight any longer, like a rusty machine whose cogs had caught and come to a jolting stop. His first, damning thought was a prayer that somehow, _somehow,_ it wasn’t his fault. 

_Blood loss,_ she had said. 

And then, all at once, after the inevitable conclusion, the remorse hit him like a wave that never stopped crashing against the shores of his mind. Over and over again like the tide. 

  
  
  


1927 

  
  
  


Footsteps approached slowly from behind him. He assumed she was giving him time to run away, which was kind of her. She really was quite kind, his May. Quite unsuited for the life he lived, though most people were. He took a swig of whisky from the glass in his hand, the crystal so thin and fine he was worried he would shatter it accidentally. She paused, behind his turned shoulder. He knew she was looking at the photograph and didn’t bother to put it away, just raised his fingers to hand it to her. She studied it for a moment, with a miniscule, scrutinizing frown that he caught in the corner of his eye. Then, 

“She’s beautiful,” she said, handing it back to him, and he folded it and tucked it back into his pocket. 

“Yep. So were the dragons,” he responded, and she made the same questioning face at him that she had when he had mentioned seeing the future. _That’s Orion, the hunter._ The flames flickered in the darkness of the grate, shadow and light. 

“I see. So if the princess was the dragon all along, does that make you the fool, or I?” May asked, he wondered if the only reason she wasn’t scared of him was because she didn’t know better. He scoffed. “What was her name?” she prodded, and he said, 

“I’ve told you her name.” 

“Perhaps I’ve forgotten it.” 

“Have you?” he snapped, and she pulled up short. 

“Bottling it inside of you does good to no one, Thomas,” she said, her voice soft and a little sad, her doe eyes reflecting the orange glow of the fire in their mahogany depths. “Least of all yourself.” 

He took another drink of his whisky, a bigger one than he had really meant to, and it scalded down his esophagus like lit petrol. “You sound like me fuckin’ aunt,” he said, gruffly, debating a refill. “So that’s what this is about, eh? My welfare?” 

“What else would it be about?” she questioned, in such a dignified tone he almost believed her. Almost. He stared at her, heavily, accusingly, waiting for her to blink. She didn’t, although she hardly looked pleased at the scrutiny. He supposed it was cruel of him, to refuse her this, when she asked for so little. 

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Thomas?” she asked, and he couldn’t hold back his incredulous snort. 

“Is that what we’re calling it?” he asked idly, scratching the scar on his forehead. He wanted more whisky. She sat on the arm of his plush chair before the fire, pulling her brown hair over her shoulder. It was longer, now, and growing past them. 

“We don’t have to call it anything,” she said, evenly. “But friends, at least, yes? Possibly a bit more,” she added, with a small smile. “Would you agree?” 

He gave a noncommittal jerk of his head, went back to looking at the fire. 

“Friends should be able to talk to one another,” May said, quietly, he could see her outline in his periphery, smell her blackberries and amber, sensual and soft, just like her. Perhaps not soft, not really. Perhaps he had gotten so used to knives that anything else looked like a flower. 

“Your friends, maybe,” he said, and her lovely eyes turned slightly sad. She clicked her tongue. 

“No,” she corrected with a sigh, “Somewhere in my life I seem to have taken a very wrong turn. Now I’ve only the one,” she said, and he could feel her looking at him, so he turned to meet her eyes. He still thought she was mostly asking out of personal motivation, or superficial curiosity, but he couldn’t ignore the note of genuity in her tone. Loneliness was a symptomatic disease, and he recognized it in her like a mirror. And he knew the real reason he hadn’t told her wasn’t because he was so against speaking of it, but rather a fear that if he did, May was likely to leave him, too. And he didn’t want her to. The voices were quieter when he was with her, but he kept his distance, because he had finally learned to.

“Her name was Tessa,” he stated flatly, and stood, taking his empty glass with him to the display of tinkling silver, each decanter likely worth the cost of most people’s savings. “And I don’t want to talk about her.” 

“And why not?” May asked, exasperatedly, and he gave her a meaningful look, even if he couldn’t manage a grin past the lie. 

“Because I’m with you,” he said, slowly, and she sighed and scoffed and then smiled. 

  
  
  


_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


“There’s a telephone call for you, Miss Tessa,” a butler, Eric, said. “And the tall British man is waiting for you downstairs.” 

Tessa nodded. Edward had a rather intense dislike of Eric. Said he was “too familiar”. Tessa found his brash endearing, and after all, he was nothing to the likes of Arthur Shelby or Alfie Solomons. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment, would you?” she asked, and stood from the desk she had been hovering over, papers strewn out across it haphazardly, crossing the room and hall to the telephone tucked in a corner. 

“Hello?” she asked, and from the other end, came a muffled sob. 

“Tessa, I’m sorry-,” a hiccuping gasp, “It’s Emmy, I- I didn’t know who else to call-,” 

“Emmy, what’s wrong?” she demanded immediately, speaking over a sound like a door slamming on the other end, she had been waiting for this, it was really only a matter of time, “Is Richard there?” 

There was a thump, and a whispered, “Yes,” in response, “I’ve locked the door, b-but he’s-,” 

“Stay where you are,” Tessa said. “Blockade the door, and if there are windows, lock those too. I’m on my way.” 

  
  
  
  


1924 

  
  
  


Guilt was a funny thing. Arthur, for instance, always took spiders back outside when he found them in the house because he didn’t like the sound they made when you squashed them, but Tommy had seen him drive a wood axe clean through a man’s skull once when they had been ambushed at camp. The difference, Tommy decided, was between guilt and remorse. Guilt was knowing something was your fault, remorse was caring. Tommy wasn’t sure he ever felt remorse. The _guilt_ was constant, sickeningly so, but he knew deep down that for most of it, he would go back and do it again all over. 

Remorse was new, and it was worse. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew. He was searching desperately, blindly, for any possible different interpretation, any potential chance he had misheard. He hadn’t. Her face told him. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his breath hot and ashy in his lungs. “Wh-… How?” 

She took a deep breath, which made her eyes squeeze closed for a moment in discomfort. She released it. Her fingers were clenched in the hospital sheets. She met his eyes, her face bleak and white and shattered. Her voice was a whisper, but it cut him to the bone. 

“The doctors said it was blood loss.” 

  
  
  
  
  


1927 

  
  


_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


Benson had been coming back from getting Stella an ice cream, which was dripping onto the leather upholstery of the back seat and then immediately getting lapped up by Ripper’s eager tongue. There hadn’t been time for one of them to take her back to the penthouse, and Benson had flat-out refused to let Tessa drive to the Hills alone, so the four of them were _skkkrrttt-_ ing around corners and past long, lavish driveways, Benson wearing a thin-lipped frown over the circumstances. 

“Could’ve had someone come down for her,” he muttered, and Tessa shot him a quick glare, turning her eyes back to the road. “What’s the plan?” he asked her, reaching a hand behind him somewhat subconsciously to make sure Stella hadn’t been unseated by the most recent yank of the wheel. His words made Tessa give a tiny, sardonic smirk. Stella was quiet, and when Tessa glanced at her in the rearview, she was letting Ripper finish her cone with many an enthusiastic crunch. 

“If you have to kill him to get him off of her, do it,” she said, wishing Benson spoke Romani so that she didn’t have to say it in front of Stella, but her daughter only met her eyes in the mirror with a slow blink, irises like two baby blue worlds. “Honestly, you could kill him anyway, and you wouldn’t hear a word from me about it,” Tessa continued, dropping the car’s gear, “Bastard’s got it coming.” 

Benson gave an agreeing noise, and pulled out his revolver. 

  
  
  


1924

  
  


So he was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands, and she was silent, and blurry through his glassy eyes. He thought he said he was sorry. He hoped he had. He knew he had asked if she wanted him to leave. That she had said yes. 

When he returned, she was gone. 

  
  
  


Benson watched Mr. Shelby leave her room, his chest heaving and his eyes wild, and had stood and lunged for the door before it had even had time to close behind him. Tessa was bent double, and he thought for a second that she was laughing, because her hand was pressed to her mouth, but then he realized her shoulders were instead shaking with silent sobs. 

“Tessa-,” he said, aghast, “what- what did he say to you?” He could kill him, Benson thought. Thomas had just gotten a bullet pulled from his back and couldn’t have slept more than two of the last forty eight hours. He would take his chances. Tessa shook her head, gasping so hard she couldn’t speak. Or maybe she just couldn’t speak at all. He sat on the end of the bed, hating the way her breath was catching in her throat. She was pulling in great breaths of air, like if she filled up her lungs enough, her eyes would stop leaking, rimmed in red and black. 

“I need you to-,” she said, pursed her lips and breathed out, slowly, through them, “I need you to make a call. Tell… tell Edward Rockefeller I accept his proposition.” 

Benson recoiled. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded. “What the bloody hell are you-,” 

“Please, Benson,” she said, so softly he could hardly hear her, a hushed plea. “Please, right now. Right now, before I change my mind. And I can’t change my mind, I have to- I have to, please,” and he was shaking his head, afraid for her, for all of them. He ran to the phone. 

  
  
  
  


_1927_

_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


“What are THEY doing here?” Richard was bellowing past the closed door the moment he spotted Tessa and Benson coming through one of the four sitting rooms, so loudly she could hear his every word. “Did you CALL them here? _DID YOU_?” 

If there was an answer from behind the door he was bagning his closed fist on, Tessa couldn’t hear it, she could, however, see the telltale sway in Richard’s posture, the flush across his ruddy cheeks. Tessa ticked her chin at Benson, and he crossed the room in three long strides, gun held aloft. Tessa was astonished by his loyalty on a nearly daily basis, but directly threatening a Rockefeller truly went above and beyond. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. He had followed her to another country, after all. Richard turned. At first, she had thought that he and his younger brother looked remarkably alike, but now she couldn’t see the resemblance. Possibly that was because Richard was currently the color of a beet, goatee trembling with anger, and Tessa had never seen Edward express anything more than mild annoyance, much less animalistic rage. Hatred of her own flowed through her, when she thought about that rage being directed at Emmy, about the bruises on her arms and the terrified, trapped look in her eyes, Richard scoffed at Benson and swayed slightly. 

“Come on then,” he said, tauntingly, “Give it your best shot. Go on, see what they do to you when they find out.” 

Benson worked his jaw back and forth, grinding his teeth. “Tess?” he asked, and Richard turned blearily to look at her, confusion fluttering across his face. When asked, Tessa usually introduced Benson as her assistant. Which was true, for the most part. She just hadn’t clarified all the sorts of things he assisted with. Richard’s screwed-up features were still moderately attractive, despite the crimson flush and bafflement in his expression, but his grey, balding hair was in disarray, and lacked the distinguished peppering of gray that graced his brother’s temples, his eyes were a lackluster color like pond water instead of Edward’s flinty steel. Tessa felt she had, on the whole, gotten rather lucky. Especially compared to Emmy. She made her decision. 

“Step away from the door, Dick,” she said, pointedly, and he laughed, a full-throated chuckle, his head bobbing slightly. He rested a shoulder against the door insouciantly. 

“Or what?” he drawled, and Tessa wrinkled a lip in disgust and amusement. She whistled. 

  
  
  


1924 

  
  
  


“The Perish Judah represent a movement that is pushing for a global facist takeover. The eventual goal is universal homogeneity. Complete elimination of any race or creed they find inferior to their own. This much, I assume, you have already gleaned from your interactions with them. Personally, I feel little sympathy for their cause, but alas, opinion and fact so often collide, and we must not let our own perceptions limit our success. Isn’t that right, Miss Reilly?” Edward asked, flippantly, and Tessa gave him a scorching look, and even that was draining. Everything ached. Her very heart felt sore inside her ribs. “So, the _facts_ are, ever since the war, another has been on the rise. And fighting any sort of war requires… alliances.” She blinked, and didn’t try to speak. He leaned forward. “Miss Reilly… there are other ways to phrase this, but I do not mean to waste your time. Suffice to say, the Perish resides firmly in my family’s pocket.” His tone was still completely unaffected, with no hint of pride or satisfaction, as if this statement was something that was completely commonplace. 

She wanted to tell him, “ _Congratulations on your investment. I hope it gets you killed,_ ” but she wasn’t sure she could manage to string that many words together, so instead Tessa asked, “What do you want?”, scratchy and rough. Her throat was aching, the blood pounding past the itchy bandages on it to swim through her mind, which was dark and hazy like dusk. 

“To offer a trade,” Edward said, easily, looking tranquil and serene. “If you agree to marry me, I will ensure the Perish no longer interfere in your loved one’s lives.” 

There it was. Tessa swallowed hard and it sent another shock of pain through her. “No,” she said, and was impressed at how clear and firm her voice sounded. 

Edward leaned back in the chair, unfathomably amused. “Your war will soon become worldwide,” he said, casually, like it didn’t bother him in the slightest. “The Peaky Blinders managed to hold off the Perish Judah for one night, through great personal risk. What will happen when instead of an altercation with a rival gang, you are forced to encounter your real enemy? An enemy with countless thousands to bolster it’s ranks, who look just like the men you pass every day on the street?” His fingers came together in a steeple. Tessa felt like she was choking. “What will happen to your child if it is caught in the crossfire of its family attempting to change the trajectory of half the population of the earth?” 

“Stop,” Tessa whispered, and he lifted a hand in graceful apology. 

“As I said, these are the facts,” he told her, “There will be another war, and you know exactly who the first casualty will be. I am offering you a solution.” 

“Why?” she asked, because it was the only thing she could think. He gave a humorless smile. 

“Why?” he repeated, and she clarified. 

“Why do you want to marry me? Why are you supporting the Perish? What do you gain from any of this?” 

“Chess, not checkers, Miss Reilly,” was all he said, and she was a pebble drowning in the ocean. 

  
  
  
  


1927 

_LOS ANGELES_

  
  
  


Richard followed them out onto the drive, limping, still screaming bloody murder. Worse, actually, than before, after Ripper had sunk his teeth into his calf and held him back as Tessa gathered Emmy’s huddled form from the room she was barricaded in. 

“We’re going to New York,” Tessa had said to Benson as she passed, her arm tight around Emmy’s shivering shoulders. And that was the end of that. Now, Benson was starting the engine, the rumble loud over Richard, who was approaching the car as quickly as he could, trouser leg bloody and torn, yelling and pointing at Emmy through the window, whose eyes were squeezed shut, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth. Stella was looking at her curiously, clearly unsure if they were playing some sort of game, her stare trailing to the scene Richard was causing as he picked up an elegant ceramic vase filled with flowers on the steps leading up to the front door of the house and hauled it at Tessa’s car. Ripper jumped into the back seat beside Emmy, the driver’s side window shattered as the vase collided with it, and Benson flinched, yanking the motorcar into first gear, Tessa leaned across him and over the wheel and pulled the trigger of her pocket pistol, cracking a warning shot off into the magnificent oak trees past the gleaming top of Richard’s head. Stella and Emmy squealed, Richard dropped to his knees and covered his head with his hands clumsily, as if afraid of the bullet descending from the sky, and Benson spun the car around with a sound that matched the pitch of the girls in the back seat, Tessa was aiming again, 

“Tess! STELLA!” He shouted, her teeth were bared- she dropped her arm and pulled back to the passenger side. Emmy was sobbing, Stella wailed. The occupants of the car were all thrown to the side as Benson careened them down the drive, Richard was bellowing, 

“EMMALINE!” From behind them, his voice growing more distant every passing second, soon overpowered by the noise from within the vehicle itself. Tessa released a tight breath. 

“So,” Benson said, glancing at her. “New York, huh?” 

And she closed her eyes and nodded. 

  
  



	4. HVY MTL DRMR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fight fire with fire  
> And I run rivers in rain  
> A fever spreading like wild  
> Gonna kill like Abel and Cain
> 
> Nobody to see, nobody to lose  
> Young blood on the street, been blackened & bruised  
> Get ready for me, I’m ready for you  
> Go sharpen the blade, bear witness to truth
> 
> Rage like Eve in the garden  
> The sweetest fruit you can bear  
> When the riptide’s draggin’ you under  
> Are you gonna drown?
> 
> Oh, my, those teeth are pearly white, the better to eat you with
> 
> Oh, my, my heavy metal dreamer  
> Get ready for some third rail love  
> My pretty little demon  
> Burn bright like the midnight sun

_1927_

_(5,000 feet above) MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY_

  
  


Arguably one of the most significant improvements to her life in the colonies was the private plane. Edward managed the forigen affairs for his uncle’s business. Well, his uncle’s _main_ business, anyway. Petrol. Gasoline. Black gold. From what Tessa had surmised, most members of the Rockefeller inner family were given private flight privileges, but Edward had bought the plane flat-out. The pilots, too. He was also a massive motorcar aficionado, on her last count, there had been sixty different vehicles under his name. He had a warehouse used exclusively for their storage. Tessa would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy them, but she missed horses, missed the living, breathing personalities they had. She could have simply purchased one, of course, but they traveled too often and typically stayed in hotel suites, so she would rarely see them, and she felt that was unfair. She turned a page of her book and began the thousand-times-daily mantra of reminding herself to appreciate what she had, not what she had lost. She did appreciate the plane. 

“What’s in New York?” Benson asked, sounding fatigued. His chin was resting on his hand, elbow propped on the cushioned armrest. 

“Edward,” she said, combing a hand through her hair and looking at the outline of her own face in the plane’s round window. Sometimes she still did a double take when she saw her reflection. She looked like her mother. Amelia had been a bottle blonde for a few years for a starring role in a film series, had said her hair was never the same and had Tessa promise not to make her mistake. That was the sort of thing Amelia cared about, not Tessa doing cocaine off a dressing room mirror backstage at fourteen. But she had been different after her son passed. Lifeless where she had once been animated, careless where she had once been precise. Sometimes people die before they stop breathing. 

Something of her dark thoughts must have shown on her face, because Benson reached forward from his seat in front of her and tapped the back of her hand, his knees nearly knocking into hers, his legs were so long. 

“Being able to control time, but only going forward, and only being able to go forward one minute every minute,” he said, to try to cheer her up. It was a game they played while traveling, trying to come up with useless abilities. 

“You can drink lava, but only once,” she told him, and he gave a crooked grin. 

“What?” He asked, and she frowned. 

“What do you mean, ‘what’? That’s useless, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose?” 

“Good, then it counts. Your turn.” 

“You have a superior sense of smell, but only for tangerines.” 

Now it was Tessa’s turn. “What?” she said, laughing, and he shrugged. 

“Thousands of miles away, let’s say. Doesn’t matter. You can smell them.” 

“I’m not sure that’s _totally_ useless. What If you were in a desert?” 

“What good would that do? You’d still be stuck in the desert and they would still be thousands of miles away, just taunting you.”

“Fine,” she said, with a smile that even showed her teeth. And then it faded. “I’ve a good one. You can stop a massacre, but you have to marry a fascist and find a new identity and lie to everyone you love in order to do so.” 

“Maybe he’s been bluffing this whole time,” Benson suggested, staring down at his hands. “I mean, he can’t _know_ there’s going to be another war. No one can _know_ for certain.” 

“You really believe that?” she asked, and he cleared his throat, and shook his head. 

“No,” he admitted, grudgingly. “I don’t. Things are just getting worse. We don’t hear much of it out here, but I spoke to a mate who still works for the Blinders in London. Fascism’s the talk of the town, apparently. National Socialists, they’re calling themselves now. I suppose their advertising department warned that “Perish Judah” was a bit too direct for a larger audience.” He rubbed his palms together, looking like he was regretting being the bearer of bad news. “They’re linking up with local gangs to control territories, but the Blinders have been keeping them from getting a foothold in London, and, of course, they’re not allowed to so much as stop for a pint in Birmingham, thanks to dear old Ed.” 

“What do you mean, things are getting worse?” she asked, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer. 

“Callahan, my mate, that is, said the Shelbys are getting it from all sides. Ada’s trial is still open, so they could all be carted off to Her Majesty’s pleasure at any moment. They’re close to open warfare with the Irish, which is really because of Thomas’ agreement with Churchill, which Callahan had no idea about, and I wasn’t like to tell him, but it doesn’t much matter. The Blinders could kill him for so much as speaking to me. To them, I’m a traitor.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Tessa muttered under her breath. “What else?” 

“Apparently the charges for Colindale were dropped, which, personally, I attribute to some kind of blackmail, that I reckon was also leveraged to buy Thomas’ lordship, and-,” 

“His _what?”_ Tessa asked, pausing the raise of her glass midway. The chill of the white wine left slick drops of condensation around the crystal. 

“Oh, yeah,” Benson said, crossing his legs and torn between irritation and admiration. 

“You’re shitting me. They made him a _lord?”_ Tessa asked, her brown haired compatriot nodded. 

“Like a wolf among chickens, he is. Got so much territory now that Callahan says half the boys he passes on the street have flashing brims and a peaky cut. Got men in every major port city in the bloody world. And none of them know the only thing holding it together is one little redheaded woman. Cheers,” he said, lifting his own glass of wine, which Tessa knew he adored but would only ever drink when they were alone. 

“Much appreciated,” she muttered, taking another sip. Clouds passed by below them like cotton balls tossed into a bright blue sea. “Although since my dog bit through his brother’s leg and I stole his sister-in-law, Edward’s terms may require some negotiating, and the only leverage I have is…,” she trailed off, sighed, stared down at the little golden bubbles creeping up her glass. She didn’t particularly like wine, but she wasn’t stupid enough to meet with Edward after drinking. 

“Blackmail for you, as well?” Benson mumbled, swirling his drink dejectedly. “You should have them give you a lordship, too.” 

“Wouldn’t I be a lady?” Tessa asked, and he snorted and said, 

“Nah,” much too quickly, which made her swat him on the arm. He winced, slightly, and then his expression darkened. “How do you think it’s going to go?” 

“Poorly,” Tessa muttered, resisting the urge to rub her tired eyes lest she smudge her makeup. Benson’s familiar face was consoling, his mouth pulled downward in a slight frown. “But when has anything ever gone well for us?” 

Benson grimaced, and tossed back the remaining quarter of his wine in one swallow. 

  
  
  
  
  


_1924_

_IGNATIUS HOSPITAL, LONDON_

  
  
  
  


“Tessa, what- what are you doing?” He stuttered as he reentered the room, Tessa was standing on pale, shaky legs, feet bare against the floor. 

“Give me your coat,” she said, her command dry and wheezing, her voice still weaker than straw, “I’m leaving.” 

“Le- what- what are you talking about?” he was blustering, holding his hand out in front of him to halt her approach. At some point, someone had cleaned the blood off of her and brushed her hair, but the white bandages wrapped around her arm and neck were dangerously close to the color of her skin, and her eyes were large and dark and alive with fight-or-flight and he didn’t _understand_ what was- 

“Rockefeller gave me terms and twenty four hours to meet them,” she said, yanking her good arm out of his grip because he didn’t have the stomach to squeeze tight enough to keep her still and walking to the small desk on the other side of the private room, on which rested a chart that recorded vitals. She flipped it over, and began writing with the pen beside it, setting it back down with a small click as Benson stared at her in complete incredulity. “I have something I need to do before he arrives.”

“How are you going to get out?” he asked her, and to his very great surprise, she gave the smallest of smiles. 

“I know a way,” she said, and he said the words he had known were true the moment he realized she was still in danger. 

“I’m coming with you,” he said, immediately, and he didn’t have to think about it, or question it, because it was what he had to do. Because he had made a promise to a young woman named Lucy Wong, and he had every intention of following through. 

  
  
  
  


_1927_

_MANHATTAN,_ _NEW YORK CITY_

  
  
  


There was a board room filled with men. All white, all middle aged, all wearing suits and serious faces. Edward’s expression at the head of the table didn’t change as the secretary curtsied out of the room, leaving Tessa standing in the doorway. She walked in without an invitation, because there were certain things you could get away with while a man’s attention was on you, things they would forgive because they were too preoccupied studying the curve of your tits. The superior sex, indeed. The conversation that had been taking place before her entrance had fallen to a silence that made Edward’s carefully even, 

“Darling. What is this about?” seem to echo throughout the 67th story office. 

“I need to speak with you,” she said, and then added, “Alone.” In a low tone, and Edward regarded her carefully, head cocked like a crow, and then nodded. 

“Of course,” he said, and then, “Leave us.” 

And the twelve other men did. 

  
  
  


_1924_

  
  
  


Tessa had wrapped Benson’s brown coat around her frame as tightly as she could and yet it still dwarfed her, swaddled in it like a child, swaying in the back seat of the cab. Under it, she wore only her thin hospital gown. Her feet were bare and she was staring down at them like she could read the future in between her toes. 

“Okay,” Benson said, his word the ending sigh of a deep breath. “So we’re out of the hospital. Now what?” 

“Now we go visit a friend,” Tessa whispered, staring out the window at the gray London streets flashing past, so quiet he hardly even heard her. 

  
  
  


_1924_

  
  


She had left a note. When he saw it lying on the sheets of the bed, where she had been only hours before, he breathed in a sharp, painful gasp like shrapnel. But when he read it, holding it in hands that shook slightly, he couldn’t breathe at all. 

_Sometimes the only way to kill a monster is to let it starve. -Tessa_

  
  
  
  


_1924_

_CAMDEN TOWN, LONDON_

  
  
  


The light spilling from under the wooden doors of Alfie Solomon’s “bakery” looked warm and inviting when compared to the october cobblestones sending chills up her feet as she and Benson slid out of the back of the cab, passing a few shillings to the driver. But if she had learned anything over the past few years, it was that looks not only _could_ be deceiving but nearly always were. This was not a place of safety and warmth. They would be lucky to get inside. And if they did get inside, they would be even luckier make it out. Her hands were shaking and body was aching and she was desperate for some snow, just a little, just to keep her steady, but she put one foot in front of the other until they were standing before the light creeping from the crack under the door. It was raining again, a frigid drizzle, but nothing compared to the downpour of the previous night. Benson knocked. Tessa was shivering, more from the weakness in her limbs and the cold and nerves than real fear. She didn’t seem to be capable of experiencing actual fear, at the moment, despite the nagging knowledge that she _should_ be. She should be out of her wits. But it seemed her mind was simply too overflowing to take any more terror, like her resuivors were full, so when the door opened just a crack she said, 

“My name is Tessa Reilly. I’m here to see Mr. Solomons.” And despite the tremor in her hands and the stinging cuts on her throat from the necklace, her voice was steady and sure. She wondered if this was how Tommy felt, all the time, protected by an impenetrable shield of apathy. There was nothing left in her hands, no cards to be dealt. When she blinked she saw red splatters of blood behind her eyes, she was shooting them all over again, like it was still happening, like it would never stop. She needed it to stop. She needed to run. 

A Jewish boy with curly hair peeked through the crack in the barely-ajar door. 

“Mr. Solomons holds meetings by appointment only. If you would like to speak to his-,” he began, and Tessa snapped, 

“It’s an emergency.” 

“I’m sorry, miss, but you really shouldn’t be here-,” 

“You don’t believe me? Fine. You go tell Alfie, see if he has the same opinion. If so, I’ll leave. If not, and you turn me away, rest assured you will find out _exactly_ what I meant by “emergency”. Because your boss will. That much I can promise you.” 

There was a hesitant pause from the other side of the door, and then it was pulled shut with a grating drag. Tessa pursed her lips and furrowed her brow and pulled Benson’s coat tighter around her shoulders as he gave her a sideways glance. 

“You armed?” she muttered, and his mouth warped in a silent, dismissive sort of expression. 

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll take it the moment we step inside,” he replied under his breath. 

“I thought Tommy had a partnership with these people,” she returned, out of the corner of her mouth. 

“He does,” Benson agreed, hesitantly, “but you’re not him.” 

“That’s what I’m depending on,” she said, and the door opened. 

  
  
  
  


_1927_

  
  
  


Tessa finished speaking. Edward took his thin silver spectacles off his face, and blinked. She waited. He blinked again, steel eyes hard as stone. She had learned long ago, from another man, in another life, to not look away. 

“So your attack dog bit my brother, and you’ve abducted his wife. Is that what you’re telling me, Tessa?” he asked, and for the life of her, she couldn’t decipher his tone. She had the fleeting thought, as she often did, that at least if she was gone, she knew Benson would protect Stella. Would do anything for her. Would die for her, if need be. Tessa did not drop her eyes. 

“More or less, yes,” she admitted, and Edward folded his hands behind his back, looking quietly contemplative, like a viewer at a fine art exhibit, except he was looking at her. He always seemed to be looking at her, both incredibly fascinated and completely disinterested all at once. He lowered his head, suddenly, and shook it, twice. 

“Richard,” he cursed, under his breath. “Between the two of you, I suppose I should just be grateful that the Hills aren’t aflame.” And then that was all. Tessa waited, rather impatiently, rubbing her left thumb in her opposite hand. She felt like a child sent to the headmaster, except that the consequences were inexpressibly higher. A slap on the wrist had somehow evolved into a bullet in the skull, and Tessa wondered when the stakes of her life had risen up and become bars of the cage ensnaring her. Edward tutted, facetiously. 

“Well,” he said, like this was just another Wednesday, and Tessa wondered if it was possible to shake the very earth, what it would take, because that’s what he was. A lone planet on its trajectory through the darkness, cold and frozen and lifeless. “His behavior is unacceptable, but also, unfortunately, an issue I have little power to resolve. And as for the dog… that is another matter entirely.” 

Tessa’s eyes narrowed. “‘Another matter’? Ripper only did as I commanded. And for what it’s worth, I only held him back for your sake. If it was up to me, I would have let him tear your brother to shreds.” 

Edward did not sigh or glare or pinch the bridge of his nose. He only replied in the same, completely level tone, his head tilted slightly, “I have no doubt. But this isn’t Birmingham, Tessa. Richard will want the beast put down.” 

“Well,” she said, her voice the same as his. Edward was a lion. Proud, distinguished, the head of his pride. But she had been raised by wolves. “We all want things we can’t have. He touches my dog, he dies in his own bed. You’re welcome to pass the choice along to him.” 

“You don’t really have the manpower to be making these sorts of threats,” Edward replied, like the idea of his brother’s demise didn’t bother him in the slightest. Tessa rather had the feeling it wouldn’t. 

“I don’t need it. I have me.” 

He looked up from the ledger he had been consulting during their conversation, and smiled. She would have felt patronized if she hadn’t the unshakeable feeling that he really _did_ believe her, he just found her violent tendencies amusing. She didn’t find them quite so humorous. She felt like a grenade with a half-pulled pin, waiting to be bumped wrong. 

“I will instruct him that he is not to lay a hand on the animal,” he said. “Does that satisfy you?” 

She wanted to say _No,_ wanted Richard to be the one put down, wanted to go back in time and let go of Ripper’s leash. She didn’t. “What about Emmaline?” She asked, because that was the real issue, and she waited for his response with bated breath. 

“I’m not sure I understand the question. What about Emmaline, indeed?” he asked, and she pulled back with a scoff, affronted. 

“You have to _do_ _something,”_ Tessa snapped. “Jesus, Edward, you should’ve seen her arms. Richard would’ve killed her if we hadn’t gotten her out of there. He will _kill her.”_ ” 

“You have no way of proving that,” he countered, and she retorted, 

“Not to you, no. But I know death. I know the look of its face, the expression in its eyes. Richard is out of control and has been escalating for months now, pushing boundaries, seeing how much he can get away with. And it’s going to get her killed. You can’t tell me that knowledge sits well with you.” 

Edward sat down in the handsome leather armchair at the head of the gleaming table. His smile faded. “Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair to his left. “And listen.” 

She did, fingering the gun in her clutch, like a child clinging to a comforting blanket. Edward’s handsome face was unlined, despite the gray peppering his black hair, his nose was straight and strong, his angled jaw relaxed. He interlocked his fingers, hands unscarred and unblemished, and observed her over them. 

“Tessa. My brother cannot be implicated in any way for any crime without said crime reflecting back on our corporation. He is an integral member of the trust committee, charged with the preservation of a fortune more vast than the net worth of several countries. If he were to be exposed publicly for his actions in any way, there would be an investigation, which could possibly include a look into the allocation of our funds. I don’t need to tell you how potentially damaging that could be.” 

“Yes,” Tessa glowered, crossing her arms defensively. “Wouldn’t want the government knowing how much money you’ve been supplying to their enemies.” 

Edward unlaced his fingers to wave his hand as if to physically dismiss her. “We are far above the threat of the law. It is men we must fear. Competition. Morgan. Carnegie. They are the ones who run this country. Who run this _world_. If they sense weakness, they will swarm. They will exploit it. The cost of strength is sacrifice. Our power lies in obscurity. If the amount of wealth our company possess was ever made public knowledge, they would descend like vultures, picking us apart until all that remained was bones. My father, my uncle, they would never allow such a thing to occur. And, as you said, a portion of our profits are allocated to the support of endeavors that are… frowned upon, by many. Including the substantial pay-off I have been providing to the Perish to motivate them to forgive their vendetta and avoid a certain city. And whatever our crimes may be, you, my dear, are now an accessory to all of them. So it seems our only remaining option is… forgiveness.” 

_Forgiveness,_ he said, for bruises on bone. For the encouragement of a movement that stood for atrocities in the name of the holy dollar. _Forgiveness_ for Ada. Forever Ada. Ada’s screams echoing off the dirty plaster walls of the farmhouse, Ada with her neck snapped like a toothpick. Tessa stood. 

“Fuck forgiveness,” she said. “And fuck you.” And as she left, she heard the clink of the telephone on the massive boardroom table make a distinctive _click_. 

  
  
_1927_

_740 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY_

  
  
  
  


“So?” Benson prompted. 

Tessa sat down on a sofa stitched with velvet thread and satin cushions, brushing her fingers agitatedly over the pill of the luxurious fabric. “I convinced him not to kill my dog,” she said, unaffectedly, and Benson’s large brown eyes blinked. 

“Okay.” he said, unsure. 

“And then he told me that if Emmy dies at the hands of her husband, his fucking brother, then he will find Richard a new doll to break. Because it might negatively impact the _company._ And he made sure to slip in a threat to me, as well, under the guise of protecting me, as per usual.” Benson’s mouth was crooked down as he listened. His hair had grown from the shaved sides she had become so used to and was now neatly combed back from his forehead. The scar on his cheek was white and gleaming beside his browned skin. And she worried for him in a fluttering pulse of panic, like a bird beating its wings against her ribs. “And then he called him.” 

“Called Richard?” Benson asked, eyebrows raising. Tessa reached for her cigarettes and nodded. 

“To tell him Emmy is here.”

Benson blew out a long, distressed breath, sitting down on the sofa beside her. He had a smear of red on his neck, and her heart stopped for a moment before she realized it was paint. He had been with Stella while she met with Edward. 

“Shit,” he said, under his breath, shaking his head, and then, “What do you want to do?” 

Tessa pressed her lips together and didn’t respond, her white fingers twisting against the soft press of the pillow. After several moments, she spoke. 

“If we give Emmy back to him, we as good as sign her death certificate. If we don’t, Edward will withdraw his protection and allow the Perish to swarm.” She rubbed her forehead, like she could smooth out the line between her eyes, and sighed. 

  
  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN, LONDON_

_1924_

  
  
  


“S’Alright, mate, s’alright, I know this one,” Alfie was saying from behind the closed door. “Crazy fucking bird-,” Tessa was still trembling on her bare feet. Condensation stuck to the collar of Benson’s coat and slithered down her neck beside drops of cold sweat. Bad ideas. All she had were bad ideas. The door cracked open, and a sliver of Alfie’s face peaked through, scraggly and bearded, one wide eye pressed through. “The fuck is you doing?” he prompted, and Tessa had to clear her throat to speak, it felt like she had been snacking on glass, 

“I have a business proposition for you,” she said, and he snorted like a horse that had inhaled a cloud of bugs. 

“Oh, you does, do you? You do? You sure? Not your mad fucking gyp fiancé? Because I’ve had my fill with his clever plots for the rest of my continued existence, thank you _very_ much, so while the good lord sees fit to continue putting breath in my lungs, as a show of gratitude I will keep myself far away from Thomas fucking Shelby’s crackpot fuckin’ plans, yeah, and-,” 

“Not him, no.” she said, “Me.” 

He stopped speaking for a moment, a quizzical silence, two more heartbeats of deliberation, and then the door opened. 

  
  
  


Alfie’s office was quite dusty. It was barren, which rather surprised her, she imagined Alfie to be the sort of man who had several very odd, very niche collections. Like stuffed exotic birds or something like that. But he also seemed to be the sort of man who kept his business and his personal lives separate, so she supposed she couldn’t judge her surroundings. At least it was warm. Alfie was staring at her like he couldn’t quite figure out what to make of her. 

“A business proposition,” he repeated, squinting at her. She knew he was only humoring her presence due to detached curiosity, that he was planning to call Tommy and tell him to come collect her, that he might have done already. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“ _Business_?” he asked, with a quirked eyebrow, and she managed a small smile. 

“Mr. Solomons, if I were trying to fuck you, I would be much less coy about it. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I am not a particularly shy woman,” she said, and he huffed an amused, discerning sort of breath. 

“No, you ain’t really, are you,” he said, and then, “wouldn’t fuck you anyway, though, seeing as you do not posses the necessary prequalifications, sad as it makes me to say.” 

“No?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, raising a leg to cross it over the other, intentionally letting the jacket fall to the sides, the thin hospital gown peeking through. His eyes did not leave her face, but his mustache twitched. “You wouldn’t fuck me because of Tommy. Not because I’m not Jewish. We needn’t lie to each other, Alfie.” He stared at her, for a moment, then clicked his tongue and shook his head. “This is a distillery, yes?” she asked, and he gave a huff of admittance, looking for all the world like he didn’t have the faintest clue what she was on about. She grinned. “Come now, Alfie,” she said. “Aren’t you even going to offer me a drink?”

  
  
  
_1927_

_740 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY_

  
  
  


“Shit,” he said, and then, “What do you want to do?” 

Tessa pressed her lips together and didn’t respond, her white fingers twisting against the soft press of the pillow. She had looked drawn, lately. Her face was still perfectly young and smooth but it seemed her brow was constantly filled with worry like ripples in a lake after a stone was thrown in, disturbing the peace, disturbing her mind. She didn’t sleep well, he knew that. She was looking at the cigarette in her right hand like she had never seen one. And then, out of the blue, she said, “Ben,” and looked at him again, asked, 

“What do you think Tommy would do?” 

And he was gaping at her before he could even remind himself not to. She had never brought it up sober. Not once. He could see her thinking about him, could recognize the face she made, those furrowed brows. But she never spoke of it unless he did, and he avoided the subject as best he could, for her sake. 

“What… what would Tommy do with what?” he cautioned, afraid to pry, to scare her off. She blinked fast, twice. Her eyes were far away, latched onto the distant skyline. 

“If I told him John was like to kill Esme. Or Arthur found a woman and was mistreating her. What do you think he would do?” her voice was surprisingly imploring, as was the look in her eyes when she finally turned to him. The sun was setting past the heavy curtains pulled halfway open like her eyelids, which were back to staring down at the sofa again. 

“I- I don’t know,” Benson admitted, although he was loathe to. He wanted to lie, wanted to tell her whatever she wanted to hear, but he wasn’t even sure that that was, he wasn’t even sure what the truth was, himself. In the silence, her breaths were quivering. Benson thought for a few more seconds, then said, “I think... he would do whatever you asked him to.” 

To his very great surprise, a crystalline tear slipped out of Tessa’s eye, catching the glitter of the sunset. It was a beautiful thing for a shimmering millisecond, like the diamonds falling from her neck when von Stein shot her. 

“Maybe,” she said, roughly, pupils still wet like the street after rain, but she closed them for a moment, and composed herself with a breath so tight it sounded painful. When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to say anything else on the matter, Benson cleared his throat. 

“That thing you asked me to do,” he said, slowly, cautiously. “It’s done. Found an address. You’ll never guess where.” 

“Good,” she whispered, softly. “We have to run, anyway. Get the plane ready.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Benson said, and stood. 

  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN, LONDON_

_1924_

  
  
  


Tessa sipped her drink. She didn’t drink enough rum to comment on the quality, and didn’t much care. It burned the cold from her fingers like a candle, and that was enough. 

“I’m going to marry Edward Rockefeller,” she said, “in exchange for protection against the Perish. His family supports their movement and he has influence over their actions.”

Alfie surveyed her from under his brows. “Mm hmm. I see,” he said. “And that association, right, that doesn’t bother you? Because if it were me, yeah, and a man had come to me with that fucking tosh, I’d have shot him. Right in the fuckin' face.” His expression was serious and closed, so different from his jovial swagger during the party she was almost thrown, almost choking on her words, wondering if it was her he was going to shoot. But she had been shot already. Twice. Maybe she would get a lucky three. 

“Eventually, perhaps,” she said. “The only reason he would be so willing to assist me is because it benefits him somehow. And I think,” she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, “that the only thing keeping his family from overtaking Britain the same way they have done the colonies is a different family, an upcoming empire that seems to grow by the day and could potentially challenge their rule. If they had a foothold in that family, or leverage over them, they, well, he, could prevent that from happening. Chess, not checkers, he said.” She took another drink. Alfie watched her like a dog that had spotted a squirrel. “So I’ll give it to him.” 

“Right,” Alfie said, slowly, nodding his head. He stroked his beard once, quickly, and leaned his elbows on the desk in front of him to peer at her more closely. “Well, here’s the thing about that. I still don’t fucking know what any of it has to do with me, in even the loosest terms, you know, nor what your intentions are in the first fucking place, because right now, sounds to me like you plan on betraying my best mate and just thought I should be in the loop about that, which is quite ridiculous, right, because betrayal is just,” he _tsked_ and made a face, “just a _terrible_ thing, and I, personally, right, I would never even consider it.” 

“You ship rum,” Tessa said, “they ship oil. How different are they, really?” 

Alfie shot her a pointed look. 

“I’m sorry for putting this so rudely, but kindly, fuck off, would you, because the day I do buisness with fascists is the day my great-auntie comes back up from the deep and sucks me off-,” 

“You wouldn’t be doing business with the Rockefellers,” Tessa told him. “You’d be doing business with me. I’ll tell Edward I have one condition: that he gives me a position within the company, in export. Trade. You and I will be partners, shipping your product to the states, hidden in the oil barrels. You have nothing close to that level of distribution currently, or even in the projected future, no matter your potential independent success.” 

A clock ticked behind them, _tick tick ticking_ in the silence. 

“What’re you gettin’, hmm?” Alfie asked, and he was _listening_ to her, and Tessa bit down on her smile. 

“Information,” she said, “to bring them down.” Alfie’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. He sniffed. “And a thirty-five percent cut.” 

He snorted, said something close to “pshaw”. “I don’t fuckin’ think so, love.” 

“Distribution costs outweigh production by double anywhere there’s prohibition. Tommy told me, once. Or Michael. Doesn’t matter. The bottom line is, _your_ bottom line would triple even if I was taking eighty.” 

“You can have fifteen and be grateful for it,” Alfie said, “If I _was_ to agree to this, which, let me make very fuckin’ clear, I have _not,_ alright?” Tessa smiled at him. Took another drink. She hadn’t eaten anything and the liquor spun in her stomach, and she realized something suddenly. 

“Ah, fuck,” she said, and Alfie pulled back, eyes flickering over her, saying, “Hmm?” and watching her like he was afraid she was about to swoon. Tessa frowned. “You’re only supposed to have mild, the doctors say. Christ, I forgot. I’m going to be bloody awful at this.” 

Alfie’s head cocked, and he grinned, and then guffawed, and then became suddenly serious again. She put her empty glass back on the desk. 

“Who’s is it, then?” he asked. “You been fuckin’ about with them Americans in more way than one?” She gave him a hard glare. 

“It’s Tommy’s,” she said, firmly. “I had never met a Rockefeller in my life before last night.”

Alfie’s head bobbed, as if to a slow rhythm in his mind. “Complicates things, this does,” he said, and she drew her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Yes,” she admitted, and then told him, “Tommy can’t know.” 

Alfie’s strong arms crossed over his chest and he leaned back in his chair, a burnished golden chain from which the star of David hung glinting around his neck. 

“When I was a lad, yeah,” he said, musingly, “I stole from the neighbors. Nothin’ serious, mind, an apple or some such. But my mum, she caught me. I was only little back then, and stupider than I was small. She let me choose my own punishment, you see, told me that the weight of the consequences depended on the, on the heft of the crime, right? Since it was only an apple, I got off with a clobbering. Made my ears ring, made me think twice about the price.” His keen eyes pierced her. “That’s a heavy lie, treacle.” 

Tessa tilted her head, stared back, kept her face even. “Mr. Solomons,” she said, “if we were buried under the weight of our sins, we would all already be six feet underground by now. I think your mother wasted her time.” 

Alfie blinked at her. She couldn’t see his hands, suddenly, he could be reaching for a gun- he stood-, 

“Thirty-five percent,” he said, and then he offered her his palm. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight it's official I think im in love with Tessa 
> 
> how ARE you my lovelies?? im sorry ive been so AWOL recently, I keep having to go to WORK to make MONEY to LIVE. bunch of bullshit, tbh. adore you all!!!! <3 <3 <3


	5. all the good girls go to hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My Lucifer is lonely
> 
> Standing there, killing time  
> Can't commit to anything but a crime  
> Peter's on vacation, an open invitation  
> Animals, evidence  
> Pearly gates look more like a picket fence  
> Once you get inside 'em  
> Got friends but can't invite them
> 
> Hills burn in California  
> My turn to ignore ya  
> Don't say I didn't warn ya
> 
> All the good girls go to hell  
> 'Cause even God herself has enemies  
> And once the water starts to rise  
> And heaven's out of sight  
> She'll want the devil on her team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very interesting team-up we got going on in this chapter lmao

_1927_

_1200 NORTH SHERIDAN, CHICAGO_

  
  
  


She knew she was now a fugitive in two separate countries, and her life was likely in danger, but she took deep gulps of the Lake Michigan air anyway, letting the humid sweetness coat her lungs. This close to the water, the gritty fume of the city was washed away, and gulls called and swirled against the blue of the sky. She knocked on the spotless door of the small apartment, Benson hovering a bit behind, as he tended to do. The door opened. 

Lucy Wong’s hair was longer, brushing her shoulders and done in shining curls. Her almond eyes were lined in elegant kohl, and she was wearing a silk dress. She looked beautiful, and Tessa was rather surprised at how glad it made her. 

“Hey, Lucy,” she said, and Lucy’s wide, confused eyes slid from Tessa, to Benson, who Tessa saw give a small smile. 

“Err,” Lucy said, which Tessa thought was rather fair. “H-hello?” 

“Can we come in?” Benson asked, gesturing at the open doorway she was currently blocking. She shook her head slightly, lips parted in confusion, nonplussed, unable to tear her eyes from the both of them, swivelling back and forth like she was trying to put together a puzzle. Eventually, she blinked rather dazedly and said, 

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry,” and backed away to allow Tessa to pass, some of the surprise fading from her delicate features. As Tessa passed, she gave Lucy a brief embrace that seemed to surprise her more than their unannounced arrival. Lucy was much taller than she was, about the same height as- Tessa stepped back, and tossed her a small smile. 

“It’s good to see you,” she said, “you look well.” 

Lucy cocked her head knowingly. “Someone keeps sending me empty rum bottles stuffed with money. Can’t imagine you would know anything about that.” Tessa shrugged one shoulder, a side of her mouth quirking. Lucy returned her smile, and Tessa noticed she had gotten her tooth fixed. She was surprised it had taken so long for her to realize it. She assumed Lucy would ask immediately what they were doing there, but the dark-haired girl looked between her and Benson and instead, said, 

“So where is it?” 

“Where is… what?” Tessa asked, totally thrown. Lucy raised her flat, manicured eyebrows, like it was obvious. 

“The baby?” she said. “You weren’t going to let me meet it?” 

“I- oh,” Tessa said, remembering suddenly that Lucy had left the hospital before Tessa had-, “Oh. Right.” Benson remained silent, looking at her for confirmation. She wondered briefly if a more trustworthy person had existed in the history of the universe, and gave him a small, appreciative smile. “She’s back at the hotel, with her aunt.”

Lucy looked genuinely pleased, crossing her arms and grinning. “What’s her name?” 

“Ada,” Tessa said, “Ada Stella.” 

“Hmm,” Lucy said, thoughtfully, and then, after a moment, she let out a rather witchy cackle, lifting a hand to her mouth to cover it. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s just- does that mean your child’s initials are A.S.S.?” 

Tessa smirked, and then it faded. She had considered that, but, “No,” she said, softly. “Her last name is Rockefeller.” The other girl’s face fell and brow furrowed. 

“...Oh,” Lucy said, looking completely lost. “You… er… does…,” she began, like she wasn’t sure what question to start with. Tessa sighed, her ribs tight like a rubber band. She had told no one of the truth but Benson and Alfie, and Benson would sooner have chewed off his own leg than let anyone in on her secrets. And as for Alfie, well, he had promised her that as long as she didn’t tell anyone (and “anyone” meant a certain friend) that they were business partners, he would keep mute. “Mutual secrets, yeah? They cancels out,” he had said, “like mathematics, innit?”. Tessa only believed him because she knew that his sixty-five percent was the most incentive to keep his mouth shut she could possibly hope to provide. He had actually met Stella a year previously, and they had gotten on like old mates. And for whatever reason, Tessa trusted Lucy. Perhaps it had something to do with owing her her life. 

“She’s-,” she started. She had a hard time saying his name. It felt like ash on her tongue, it made deadly blue flash behind her eyes, awakened the slumbering hunger in her stomach again. Tessa said, “Tommy.... He doesn’t know about her. Rockefeller offered me marriage in exchange for peace, and so…,” she trailed off, resisting the urge to shrug again. Her mother had hated her shrugging. Lucy’s mouth twisted in surprise. 

“I’ll go fetch you some tea,” she said, patting Tessa’s cheek, and Tessa caught Benson’s grin before he dropped his face to hide it. 

  
  
  
  


_1927_

_WARWICKSHIRE, ENGLAND_

  
  
  
  


“I simply _do not_ understand,” May was saying, chin in her hand and a frown on her face, staring down in deep concentration and distress. “How do I manage to lose _every_ time?” 

Karl grinned and began removing the pieces from the chessboard, May’s defeated white king isolated, surrounded by enemies. Tommy knew the feeling. 

“Dad taught me,” Karl said, nodding at him, Tommy raised his glass. May huffed and shook her head, muttering to herself, and Tommy smiled slightly. 

“Can I go read?” Karl asked, and Tommy flicked his eyes at him. The boy was always reading. There were worse things to do, Tommy supposed, but he worried that his head would be so full of other worlds that he would be unfamiliar with the real one. Karl scuttled out of the room, and Tommy watched him go, and May saw it, but did not comment. He appreciated that about her. He stood from his chair and walked over to sit beside her on the sofa, brushing a strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, much wilder than she was. She smiled softly. 

“Hello,” she said, her voice quiet and slightly teasing. 

“Hello,” he muttered back, turning her chin towards him. He leaned forward to kiss her, and she responded for a moment, her mouth soft and warm, before she pulled back. 

“We shouldn’t-, Karl might-,” she said, and he hummed ambivalently against her lips. 

“It’s a big house,” he told her, “lots of rooms.” He stood, offered her his hand, crooked an eyebrow. She took his palm, and he pulled her up to his chest to kiss her again, enjoying the feeling of it, of her fingers weaving through his hair, before he slid his hands down and lifted her off the floor, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her to whatever the nearest location was that possessed a door that locked. And then the phone rang. 

  
  
  


_CHICAGO_

  
  


There was a knock at the door. 

“Expecting company?” Benson asked, somewhat nervously, and Lucy shook her head, frowning slightly. Tessa opened her clutch. “I’ve got it,” Benson said, firmly, pacing to the hallway before Tessa had the chance to stand up. After a tense moment, she heard the door open, and Benson ask, 

“Who are you?” 

And a stranger’s voice reply, “I’m looking for someone,” and Tessa cocked her gun. 

  
  
  


_WARWICKSHIRE_

  
  
  


“Hello?” Tommy snapped into the receiver, annoyed. May leaned a shoulder against the wall across the room, looking mildly amused, giving him his space. 

_“_ Mr. Shelby, there’s an overseas connection for you, the woman said it was important-,” 

“Yes, could you connect me, please,” Tommy asked, there was a “One moment,” and then the click of a line. Victoria spoke. 

“Mr. Shelby? I found her, sir. I've found Lucy Wong.” Tommy cleared his throat. 

“Good. Good, yes. I need you to speak to her for me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “And this is what you’re going to say.” 

  
  
  


_CHICAGO_

  
  
  


The woman was pale and platinum blonde, her hair tightly coiled and fashionable. Lucy knew the very moment she walked into her kitchen who she worked for, and also that she had very likely slept with him, and glanced quickly at Tessa to decipher whether or not she had come to the same conclusion. Tessa’s beautiful face was blank, bee-stung lips pressed together, the vertical, white scars on her neck exposed by the hair that was pinned up. The _blonde_ hair. Lucy would have to ask about that, as soon as she got this stranger out of her home. She turned to the woman. 

“What do you want?” she asked, but she was staring at Tessa. 

“Who is _she?”_ she asked, and Tessa made a face. 

“What do you mean, who am I? Who are _you?_ ” she asked, and the woman looked at Benson, who glared back, and Tessa said, “You work for Thomas?” 

She ignored her, which made Tessa blink in irritation. 

“He has a message for you,” she said, to Lucy, whose gut gave a clammy lurch. Her last interactions with the man had left her waking in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, her vision swimming with nightmares of rabid dogs and blood running down in rivlets. 

“What might that be?” she asked, trying to sound imperious. 

“I said a message for _you,”_ the stranger replied, eyeing Tessa and Benson again. Tessa rolled her eyes slightly. “Not... whoever _they_ are. We should have a word. In private,” she said, pointedly, and Lucy stared at her, then looked at Tessa, and said, 

“That’s his wife. Anything you need to tell me, you can say in front of her.” 

Tessa blinked, once, and the blonde woman crossed her arms and gave Tessa an even more discerning sweep of her stare before saying, “Mr. Shelby isn’t married.” 

“No?” Tessa asked, idly, lifting her left hand to examine the diamond that glittered on her ring finger. “What unfortunate news. I suppose I’ll have to come up with a way to tell our daughter.” 

Lucy smirked, and caught Benson’s sideways glance. The woman worked her jaw slightly, a masculine gesture for such a slight thing. 

“And what about _him?”_ she jerked her head at Benson, who was leaning his shoulder casually against a corner. 

“Family friend,” he replied, evenly, and Lucy mourned again his unavailability. 

“Why should I believe you, then?” the woman asked Tessa, who smiled, plush lips pulling. 

“That’s easy,” she said. “Ask me something about him.” 

The stranger blinked, one, two, three times. Benson, Lucy, and Tessa waited. Tessa was wearing a confident expression. The other woman’s eyes narrowed. 

“Birthday,” she said. “Gypsies aren’t born in hospitals. There’ll be no certificate.” 

“December first,” Tessa replied, immediately, and Lucy added, “On a ship called the _January,_ ” before really thinking twice about it. Tessa shot her a puzzled look. “Jack told me,” Lucy explained, and the blonde stranger frowned. 

“Jack Fischer?” she asked, and Lucy, Benson, and Tessa all turned to her, sharply. 

“How do you know that name?” Tessa snapped, and she looked defensive. 

“That’s what Mr. Shelby sent me here for,” she retorted, “information on a man named Jack Fischer. He said to find Lucy Wong, that she would have it.” She turned to Lucy, who had known, she had known this was coming, she had known _something_ was coming. “Told me to remind you of your deal, said you would know what that means.” 

Lucy swallowed hard. Her throat was tight. Tessa recoiled. 

“Wait- what? That’s why _we’re_ here for,” she said, her eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why does he want to know about Jack?” 

“I’m not thick enough to ask,” the woman answered, and Lucy had to give that much to her, at least. “But seeing as he’s your husband, apparently, you’re more than welcome to do it yourself.” 

Tessa’s stony expression flickered, venom lighting her dark eyes. Lucy was stunned, if for mere coincidence alone. Three years of silence, and then on the same day, all her ghosts happen to show up on her front doorstep? Benson’s gentle face was closed, and he was observing her closely, waiting for her to make her choice. 

“I have files,” she said, “and notes I took. But it’s not as if there are multiple copies.” Tessa seemed like she had already arrived at this conclusion and was thinking ahead. She tilted her head at the other woman. 

“What’s your name?” she asked, and the woman hesitated. “I’m Tessa. What’s your name?” she asked, again, and,  
“Victoria,” she answered, cautiously. Tessa nodded, and perched on top of Lucy’s kitchen table, crossing her legs. 

“Look, Victoria,” she said, slowly, looking out the window for a moment as a bird fluttered past. Then her attention returned, and her stare was firm. “If you go back empty handed, Thomas _will_ kill you.” 

Victoria started, and stuttered, her eyes wide and fearful. She looked like someone whose greatest fears had just been confirmed. 

“You have to give them to me, you can’t- he’ll-,” she said, and Tessa held up an elegant hand to silence her. 

“You can have it,” she said. “Take it back and give it to him. But from now on, as gratitude for saving your life,” her voice was sure and steady, “from now on, you work for me.” 

  
  
  


_1927_

_THE DRAKE HOTEL, CHICAGO_

  
  
  


“Tommy wouldn’t have killed her, would he,” Benson muttered to her as the gilded elevator doors slid closed before them. He pressed the number 47 with a large finger. 

“It’s very doubtful,” Tessa admitted, “but it was the only way to eventually get the information and not let him in on it. Just means more waiting.” 

Benson frowned at her. “We’ll find him, Tess,” he said, supportively, and she tried to give him a reassuring smile, but her facial muscles felt strangely weak. 

“Yes,” she said, halfheartedly. “I just... can’t shake the feeling that we’re running out of time.” 

The doors opened and they walked down the hall to the door, and Tessa went to unlock it, before realizing it already was. 

“Ah, fuck,” she cursed, and flung it open. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact I actually lived in Chicago for four years and just recently moved and writing this made me :(


	6. Bullet with Butterfly Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage  
> (And I still believe I cannot be saved)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello mi bebes im sorry that the update pace has been so slow recently, I have been busy and also this plot just takes a Lot of work haha but it will all be worth it, we hopes!! love u :}

_BIRMINGHAM, 1927_

  
  
  
  


The Garrison’s snug had seemed to grow smaller over the years. Tommy could’ve sworn that as a teenager, the nook could have held thirty, men, women, children, the whole gang of them. You would think that the less people in it the larger it would seem, but apparently that wasn’t the case. He sat with Arthur and John and waited, and the walls felt crushing and tight. 

“We found Billy Stevenson,” Arthur said, finally, in a heavy tone. “Landed on our doorstep in London not an hour ago. Had a note on ‘im, from the Titanic. Gesture of goodwill, they said. Want to reopen the trade routes.” 

“No,” Tommy replied, shortly, from around his smoldering cigarette. “Any contact with the Irish and Churchill severs all ties. He’s made that very clear.”

“Tom,” Arthur said, imploringly, leaning forward over his intertwined fingers that rested on the table. “There'll be retribution, man. Gotta figure a way out of this. Replace the Irish distribution with another player.” 

“I do that,” Tommy said, “people die.” 

“People might die anyway,” John pointed out, and Tommy stared at him. 

“People always die anyway,” he said, and then he stood. 

“Your orders is the same, then?” Arthur asked, staring down at his hands. “For Billy?” 

“Why would they not be?” Tommy asked, and he maneuvered around John and slammed the door. 

  
  
  


_THE DRAKE HOTEL, CHICAGO, 4:24PM_   
  


Emmaline Rockefeller was the eldest of four daughters. With no sons to pass along the family name, her father, Henry Hiller, had spoken to her of little else during her childhood than ensuring a good match between her and some stuffy bloke that would secure the future of her sister’s eventual engagements as well. “Someday you will have to stop being a silly little girl, and you will have to start looking out for this family,” he would say, frowning at her ribbons and frills like they caused him irritating skin conditions. So she had done the damn thing, had even tried to keep her chin up about it. Richard was thick and callous but he was, after all, _quite_ rich, richer than Emmy’s father had ever imagined his son-in-law being. Her family was proud of her, for the first time. Her father had even _smiled_ at their wedding. 

She had told Henry about the beatings, once. He had told her to call the police, as if somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to her, and then said something like, “we have to pay for our good fortunes somehow”. She hadn’t spoken to him since. Her mother phoned, sometimes, timid and apologetic, saying Henry was only trying to look out for their legacy. Emmy didn’t have the heart to tell her that she would likely soon be dead, and once she was gone, Richard would simply replace her. Nothing would go to her family, her sister’s arrangements would end up being with blacksmith’s apprentices instead of politician’s sons. She was more practical than she let on. More practical, and more cornered, and more terrified than she had known she ever could be. 

  
  


She was in the parlour with Stella and the nanny whose name she could never remember and didn’t much care to, thinking of her sons. Twin boys, Henry and David, six years old and both quicker than whippets. They were staying at their grandfather’s estate in New York, had been since the start of the summer. Since Richard had sent a vase shattering on the wall above David’s head, raining shards down, close enough to blind him. Emmy had called Tessa, and the boys were put on a private plane the very next evening. When Richard discovered what she had done, the beatings had worsened twofold, but her children, at least, were safe. Safer than she was, at any rate. There was a knock on the penthouse door, and a voice called, “Room service, Mrs. Rockefeller?”. And she assumed that Stella’s nanny had called, perhaps, or Tessa and Benson were returning from their vague “meeting” with a “friend”, and not once on her way to the door did she consider that her husband could have managed to track her down before she had spent even a full twenty four hours in the city. She never stopped blaming herself for that, for not asking, for not taking a moment to consider. She still wasn’t used to living with the fear. 

But in any case, there he was, and she wondered when the face of her husband had morphed into something that crawled out of the depths and grabbed her ankles. She couldn’t even look at him, now, despite his pleading eyes. 

“Emmy,” he said, there was a man behind him at the door, wearing a suit and a frown, Emmy hadn’t realized the implications, that Richard had brought backup to outnumber her, she had been too shocked to see him standing there, on the doorstep of the penthouse foyer that led to the elevators, too shocked to realize anything, because she had thought she was safe. 

“How did you find me?” The hushed query was one horrified breath. He frowned, like he was disappointed that she was disappointed to see him. 

“Emmy, listen, listen to me, honey, you’ve gotta listen to me, it’s just the booze, alright, and I’ve slowed down, Ed threw a tantrum over it-,” he was always like this, even moments after his fist had collided with her cheek, spewing apologies and excuses that did nothing to soothe the pain of knuckles on soft skin. 

“Get out of my sight,” she said, and her voice betrayed her, a stab in the back from her own trembling vocal chords. 

“No,” he said, slowly, shaking his head. “No. I won’t be going anywhere, unless you’re coming with me.” 

  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN, LONDON_

  
  
  
  


Alfie wasn’t speaking. This, alone, was enough to set Tommy’s teeth on edge. There wasn’t a moment in the bastard’s life when he wasn’t babbling, but it would seem that this particular day was the first in which he did not feel the need to fill every second of silence with his endless chatter, and Tommy found himself wishing, rather strangely, that he would. 

Billy was tied to a chair. Tommy, John, Arthur, Alfie, and Ollie stood gathered around him like a gathering of priests come to judge the deeds of a sinner. But priests they were not. Arthur cracked his knuckles, his mustache twitching. 

“You’ll get rid of the body?” Tommy asked, Alfie gave a jerky sort of shrug, his wide shoulders making the heavy black coat he was wearing flutter slightly. 

“For free?” He asked, and snorted like a bull. “Fuck no, mate. Five thousand.” 

“Five thousand?” Tommy repeated, dryly. If they were in Birmingham, he could have done it for free. No question. But there was to be no other business done in Birmingham. None that he witnessed. He had enough problems without someone accusing him of murder. Again. “Two,” he said, Alfie shot him a glare. 

“Listen, Tommy, this here’s my fuckin’ _house,_ right? My synagogue, you understand. Can’t just be allowing men to be shot ‘ere, left and right, I mean,” he huffed, “what _will_ them nosy fuckin’ neighbors say?” 

Tommy looked around the distillery, raising his eyebrows slightly. It was hardly a home, and even less a religious institution, and he would have bet the three thousand pounds he was inevitably going to fork over to his business partner that the building had seen about as much blood as actual bread. And Alfie would hardly tolerate nosy neighbors. 

“Three,” Tommy said, and Alfie gave a small nod and scratched his nose, looking back at Billy. 

“When the fuck is this rat going to open his beady little fucking rat eyes?” he asked, and poked the man’s slumped, unconscious body with his cane, making his head bob slightly. 

“Don’t know why we’re fucking botherin’ waiting for him to wake up,” John said, with a disgusted sniff. “Should just put one in his skull and be done with it.” 

“You can take a seat if you’re getting tired, eh, John?” Tommy said, and he shut up, and they all went back to staring at the body in the chair before them. The men that had brought Billy in had been a bit overly enthusiastic, but Tommy didn’t much care. 

“We needs to know what ‘e knows,” Arthur said, sagely, and Tommy wiped the surprise from his face at his intuition. He had better instincts than Tommy gave him credit for. Or perhaps, he was just learning. Seconds dripped past like a leaky faucet, and they waited. 

  
  
  


_THE DRAKE HOTEL, CHICAGO, 4:43PM_

  
  
  
  


The penthouse was nearly destroyed. Decorative bowls lay smashed on the floor, a couch was overturned, a glass table had been shattered. Benson followed Tessa down a hall, guns raised, wishing she would let him go first. The air felt tense and still, and then it was broken by a muffled whimper that cut Benson like he had stepped on one of the shards. Tessa’s pale face was somehow paler, he could see the very faint freckles splattered across the bridge of her nose. She cocked her gun, and nodded at him, which he turned. She followed the source of the noise. 

The master bedroom door was closed, locked. Tessa knocked gently. 

“Emmy?” 

There was no response. Tessa’s brow furrowed. 

“Baby?” 

The door unlatched, the hiss of the lock clicking slightly, and it creaked open. Mrs. McCraken’s white face peaked through, her eyes wide and frightened. 

“Mrs. Rockefeller,” she whispered, “there’s-,” 

And a gloved hand closed around her mouth. Tessa lifted her gun, the .22 she had purchased at a gun shop, because this was America, and they littered street corners like confetti after a parade. Benson was happy with his army-issue, but had caved when he spotted a semi-auto sawed-off, and wished he had it now. Nothing made a man’s courage fail like staring down those wide, yawning barrels. 

“Back away from the door,” Tessa commanded, and then pushed it open. The nanny’s graying, flyaway hair was trembling with the shivers wracking her frail frame, her veined hands twisting in front of her. A man stood behind her, pressing a pistol to her temple, which was beaded with cold sweat. Ripper was locked in his huge cage in the corner of the room, snarling and snapping at the metal bars, Benson wasn’t sure he had ever actually seen the dog locked up. Tessa let Ripper sleep beside her on the bed, for Christ’s sake. Benson forced himself not to lunge forward and tackle the man, who was wearing an expensive suit and self-assured expression. 

“Mr. Rockefeller would like a word in the parlour,” he said, smoothly, “drop your weapons or I will decorate the walls with her brains.” 

They lowered the guns slowly. The man approached, to pick up the weapons laid at their feet. That was his mistake. The moment he crouched down, the black back of his head exposed for a mere moment, Tessa pulled out her gun, a real gun, not the peashooter she kept in her clutch, but the one in the holster on her thigh, an Astra Model 400 she had purchased from Alfie, like a true criminal, because the number had been scratched off it and he had included a Maxim silencer, which were near impossible to get your hands on. Benson kicked the man in the face with as much force as he could muster, and the pistol he had been leveling at poor Mrs. MrCraken flew from his fingers. Benson snatched his revolver off the floor and aimed it between his eyes, the walls of which were white and wide. 

“Stand,” Benson commanded, “back up against the wall.” 

Tessa did not even spare the man a glance as he passed her to comply with Benson’s orders, hurrying forward and taking Mrs. McCraken’s trembling hand. 

“Where is _Stella?”_ she demanded, but the terrified old woman only shivered harder, and Tessa softened her tone. “There now, it’s alright,” she said, soothingly. “It’s all right, now. Tell me, please, where is my daughter?” 

And the woman raised a shaking finger and pointed to the closet door, which was closed. Tessa stared at it for a moment, then released a tight sigh. Benson thought he heard her mumble, 

“Thank god,” under her breath, and then, “Emmy-,” 

She turned to the man with his back against the door. He looked Spanish, and also like he was angry at being bested by a woman. 

“Does Rockefeller have her? Does he have more men?” Benson applauded her use of the surname as if it wasn’t also her own. The man smirked insolently and Benson closed the two strides between them quickly and smashed the butt of his revolver against his jaw. The man yelped and Mrs. McCraken screamed, but Tessa crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. 

“She asked you a question, mate,” Benson said in a low, direct voice. The man’s jaw worked. 

“Who are you?” he demanded, “Richard said you were novices. Said you wouldn’t even know how to shoot.”

Benson’s immediate thought of _Christ, I hate that man_ led him to speak in anger, without thinking. 

“We’re Peaky Blinders,” he snapped, and Tessa shot him a look that said, quite clearly, _Not anymore,_ but instead of responding she went back to staring daggers at the man, who was squinting in the bright stream of afternoon light that was cutting past the curtains and into his eyes. Tessa crossed the room and moved to the open trunk on her bed, the expensive luggage packed somewhat haphazardly during their most recent getaway. She flung aside a few scraps of lace and silk that Benson would have hardly qualified as clothing, and took out the silencer, screwing onto the barrel of the Astra. She had considered naming Stella after the gun, she said, but was trying to avoid creating any more self-fulfilling prophecies. How well that had worked out for them. She walked quickly around the California king and to the golden telephone, dialing a number from memory. 

“Overseas connection,” she said, and the man and Benson both watched her. The man’s brows were furrowed, but Benson was having a sudden realization, and cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. 

  
  
  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN_

  
  
  


A telephone rang, distantly, from upstairs. Alfie grunted slightly like he had been awoken from a nap, jerking his head at Ollie to answer. John’s face was pressed against a support beam, his cheek squished slightly, and Arthur was staring at the brick basement wall like he was numbering them individually, which Tommy reckoned was unlikely, mostly because he doubted Arthur could count that high. Ollie returned, his footsteps thudding on the wooden stairs.

“For you,” he said, to Alfie, who seemed to already have surmised as much and couldn’t have given less of a damn about it. 

“Very busy at the moment, Ollie,” he said, flippantly, going back to staring at the top of Bill’s prone, motionless head, which was slumped over his chest. Tommy snorted. “Tell ‘em, I’ll call ‘em back later, alright? Fucking hell, like a man has all the spare time in the world.” He sniffed and folded his hands delicately over the top of his cane. John scratched his head, and Ollie didn’t move, still frozen at the bottom of the stairwell. 

“Is you deaf, mate?” Alfie barked at him, cocking his head like a spaniel. “Fucking tell ‘im I’ve got business needs attending, fucks sake-,” 

“It’s a her,” Ollie said, softly, glancing back up the stairs at the telephone like he was afraid it was going to follow him down and bite his hand off at any moment. Alfie cleared his throat, and Arthur and John exchanged a look, Tommy was smirking very faintly. 

“Right,” Alfie said, swaying ponderously. “Right,” and he lumbered over and began climbing the steps with an air of great suffering, Ollie letting him pass with an expression close to relief. 

  
  


_CHICAGO_

“Hello, Ollie, I need to speak to Mr. Solomons, please,” Tessa said into the phone, her words impressively even, as if it were only a business call, but her gaze kept flicking to the door of the closet, to Mrs. McCraken’s teary eyes and hands pressed to her mouth. Benson kept the gun on the corporate hitman. “Right now. It’s urgent. Put him on the line or our deal is off and I will send a man to shoot you in your bed.” 

Benson shot her a look, like he bloody well wasn’t about to fly across the country to murder a little Jewish baker, and she ignored him. 

  
  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN_

  
  
  


Tessa Reilly had become, quite oddly, one of Alfie’s least-disliked people that he knew. And he knew quite a lot of people, but he generally only tolerated them at best. They were good for amusement, good to watch scurry around, dancing on their strings, but blind and ignorant and _stupid,_ and he tired of them quickly. That was much of the appeal for Thomas Shelby, as well. Git he was, idiot he was _not._ Unfortunately, with him, that was where the appeal ended, because, as Alfie often said, the man had a knack for making a bloke want to shove a pen through his eye. Tessa, on the other hand, he found charming, almost disarmingly so, and more intelligent than half the wankers in his ranks. 

“You’ve frightened my bookkeeper,” he said, into the phone, acutely aware of the way all three Shelby brothers had watched his departure in evident amusement. “You must needs stop doing that, love, he’s quite skittish, you see, like one of them lit’le dogs, right, and just like them he goes and pisses in a corner if he gets too worked up-,” 

“How many men do you have in Chicago?” she interrupted, not even a nice “Hello, Alfie, how are you?”, none of her usual banter, and his brow lowered. He tugged at his beard absentmindedly. 

“Thirty or so, yeah, give or take,” he said, “But they’re all up north, thereabouts, got some merchandise needs transported over a certain invisible line.”

He heard a quiet, tinny, “Fuck”, over the other end. 

“Alfie,” Tessa said, her voice relaying some of the tension of her words, tight and strung like a band, “Stella is here.” 

“Ah, hmm,” Alfie said, so that he didn’t give anything away to his little audience. He doubted they could hear him, over the various bangs coming from beyond the office doors, all the way in the basement, but you could never be too careful around gypsies. “There may be… someone, right, who could lend a hand.” 

  
  
  


_CHICAGO_

  
  
  


“Wiv your permission, of course, treacle,” Alfie was saying, Tessa was thinking _fuck fuck fuck._

“Tell me you’re not talking about-,” she began, and Alfie coughed and said, 

“Thing is, he’s _here,_ right-,” 

“Right now? He’s there _right now?_ Does he know you’re speaking to me?” And she felt like for a bizarre moment like she was in primary school, gossiping with a friend, instead of-, 

“ _Naw,”_ Alfie said, full of surety. “Hasn’t the fucking foggiest. But what I’m saying, yeah, is that if you really want to protect that little starry-eyed daughter of yours, you might want to consider it, hmm?” 

Tessa tried to take a breath and couldn’t. “Tell him Victoria was captured,” she said. “The Drake Hotel, penthouse. _Quickly.”_ She gave the man on the wall a hard, pointed stare, and said, "There's bodies."

“I beg your very dear pardon? And just who the fuck is Vi-,” Alfie started to ask, and Tessa hung up, walked to Ripper’s cage, where his whines quieted slightly, and opened the latch. 

“Fanacht,” she said, and he looked at her with liquid brown eyes and settled onto his haunches, remaining inside the bars, his eyes tracking her movements. 

“Mrs. McCraken, stay with Stella,” she said, then pointed at the man against the wall, his mouth bleeding where Benson had hit him with the gun, ruining his lavish suit. “You’re coming with me.” 

  
  
  


_CAMDEN TOWN_

  
  


“So,” Arthur said, smugly, the moment Alfie meandered back down the creaking stairs. “Who was-,” 

And finally, finally, Billy stirred in his chair. Tommy’s face went from blank amusement to blanker, crystalline focus in an instant. Billy groaned. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Alfie muttered, tapping across the room to stand before him, and backhanding him so hard his head lashed to the side. “Wake up, mousie, you’re lazier than my gran, and she’s fuckin’ dead, innit she?” 

“Alfie,” Tommy muttered, probably worried Alfie would knock the block right out again. Alfie wrinkled his nose but took a step back, and Tommy walked forward to crouch before their captive, the leather back of his gun holster gleaming slightly in the low light. 

“Good morning, Mr. Stephenson,” he said, coldly. “Now, tell me. How long since your last confession?” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg ALSO I GOT THE APARTMENT EEEEEEEE thank you all for the well-wishes, truly think they helped things FINALLY start falling in place for me. you are all angels and I appreciate each and every one of you so fucking much <3


	7. The Devil Takes Care Of His Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you flip the rug then you'll reveal an ugly scene  
> But the strength of ten thousand will never weaken me  
> Wit just like a razor blade; you carve me half and half  
> Oh, I'd better wait to kill the time
> 
> Do you dare to speak his name? There's evil at the root  
> Cruel or kind, it's on your mind; go on and give the dice a roll  
> Never did believe in saying fortunes are foretold  
> Easy come and easy they will go
> 
> Didn't you read it in the detail  
> That if you're idle then you will fail  
> Now you wanna know an answer  
> But if you dance then you're a dancer
> 
> The Devil takes care of his own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have another one ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_THE DRAKE HOTEL, CHICAGO, 4:45PM_

  
  


The destruction continued into the parlor. Benson traced the lines down the wallpaper with his eyes, rivets like fingernails grasping for purchase, and felt rather sick, but kept the hand holding his revolver to the back of the man’s skull steady. Tessa moved silently, footsteps light on the dense carpet, Astra aloft. The first thing Benson noticed in the parlor was not the occupants, but the massive, broken window, panes shattered and glass littering the floor like little glittering jewels, he wondered when, if ever, everything in their lives would not be prone to shattering. Then he saw Richard and Emmy. 

  
  
  


_CHICAGO, 4:25PM_

  
  
  


“Six years of marriage, thrown away, for what? For _what,_ Emmaline? A simple disagreement?” He scoffed and shook his head in affront, like she had stood on a pedestal and accused him. He began nudging his way past the door, Emmy heard Mrs. McCraken’s querying tone from behind her. Emmy looked over her shoulder, the door blocking her from his view. “ _Hide. Stella._ ” She mouthed, silently, and the nanny’s eyes widened with fear and she gathered her skirts and turned hastily back down the hall as he continued his pleas. “Think of the children-,” 

“I am thinking of the children,” Emmy muttered, through numb lips. 

“You try to leave my house looking like some street corner tramp and it’s _my_ fault for preserving the family name,” his head was shaking again, like a nervous tick. He made it a few more inches into the doorway, shouldering past her. “That Tessa woman, she’s a poor influence on you, you won’t be seeing her any more.” She went to slam the door in his face, and he shot a hand through the gap, snaking around her wrist. 

“Richard- don’t-,” she gasped, and then turned to run. 

  
  
  


_CHICAGO, 4:46PM_

  
  
  


“WE’RE _LEAVING!_ DO YOU HEAR ME? WE’RE LEAVING, _RIGHT NOW!”_ He was bending over, bellowing into Emmy’s cowering face,

“Hello, Richard,” Tessa said loudly, in a tone so dry Benson wouldn’t have been surprised to see cold steam hiss out of her mouth. Emmy was on the floor, and she looked worse than the room, worse than anything Benson had ever seen, and for the first time in his life, he had to look away. Richard’s pink face was red, billowing like an engine, huffing and puffing from the exertion of destroying the room and his wife. The look of shock on his face when he saw his man being marched at gunpoint, with a bloody face and his hands in the air, gave Benson a rather incredible rush of satisfaction. “Run out of puppies to kick?” Tessa asked, and Richard snarled. 

“That’s just it, you see,” he said, a slow, vicious grin spreading across his face. “You took my favorite bitch.” 

Benson watched the snap happen behind Tessa’s eyes. She looked at the broken window. She raised her gun. 

“Walk,” she said, and Richard laughed. Benson kept the gun on the black haired guard, kept having to look away from Emmy’s crumpled form, because if he stared too long he knew he would pull the trigger. 

“I bet my bank account you don’t even know how to use that thing,” he said, standing where he had been crouched over Emmy, her hands lifted to protect her face from his blows. 

“Maybe mine’s bigger,” Tessa said, with a cocked brow, flicking her gaze to the crotch of his trousers. Richard glowered at her, a snarl curling his lip. Benson knew he thought he was calling her bluff. He also knew Tessa wouldn’t want to shoot unless absolutely necessary. They were on the top floor of a penthouse, after all. Even a silenced shot would make noise. She did not move. Richard chuckled. 

“That’s what I thought,” he said, grinning toothily, “All beauty and no brains. You’ve really dug yourself a hole now, I wonder what my brother will do with his whore when he-,” 

Tessa leveled her gun, aimed, fired, and sunk a bullet into the skull of Richard’s man, with a sickeningly audible sound of impact, and he collapsed with a heavy thud that sent the delicate glass chandelier tinkling. It seemed that Benson had been incorrect in his assumptions about her likelihood for murder. Emmy watched from the floor, silent and frozen, like she was dead, too, like she had been dead for hours or days. Richard’s crimson face drained suddenly of the red like the blood was leeching out of him as it was the man crumpled behind the overturned sofa. Tessa’s chest was heaving, but her hand was steady, and her voice was empty. 

“Walk,” she said, “or the next one’s for you.” 

“Please,” Richard said, suddenly, blubbering out of him like a child. Benson got the distinct impression he had never seen a man die before. The wind hissed past the window, the view of the lake sprawled out below them like a cerulean blanket. “Please, I didn’t mean it-,” 

“Walk to the fucking window,” Tessa bit, flicking the barrel of her pistol at him. Benson sighed, cracked his neck, and pointed his revolver at Richard as well. Just to make a point, and because it felt good to finally level a weapon between the wanker’s crowfoot eyes. Richard took a trembling step, making his way around the intricately carved table, towards the wall of windows. He took another, slower one, closer to Emmy, who shifted away. Tessa made an impatient sound over his continued pleas. “You don’t understand, I love her, I do, it’s the booze, you- you don’t know-,” 

“I don’t know?” she snapped, apparently losing her patience, “Like I don’t know how to shoot?” she accompanied her words with the drop of the barrel, until it was pointed at the back of his knees, ready to cripple him. “Do enlighten me, then.” He stayed silent. Benson saw him swallow. “That’s what I thought,” Tessa said, using his own words against him, “now _move-,”_

But he lunged down and hoisted Emmy’s frantically scrambling form in front of him like a human shield, even as she kicked and scratched and bit, and he yelled, 

“I’m walking away from this place unharmed, or I will take her down with me, I swear to God I will-,” 

“God didn’t ask,” Tessa replied, voice harder than stone, her beautiful face darker than the sky above a stormy sea. “Ripper!” she shouted, and Benson realized her intentions the moment she called for him, “Goitse!”

And the massive Rottweiler came tearing down the hall. 

Richard had never trusted Tessa. Emmy couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about. As far as Emmy was concerned, Edward had spotted Tessa at that grand opening they had met at three years ago, and had stolen her from that blue-eyed man whose name people seemed rather reluctant to speak, as a sort of pissing match. That sort of thing happened all the time in their social circles, women being used as trophies and playthings, the prettier the woman on your arm, the more impressive the other men believed you to be, and Edward was satisfied with nothing but the best. So he had taken Tessa. Emmy had felt for her. She knew what it was like, to be uprooted from your life based on masculine whims. 

But she understood why, now. 

Her eye was swelling shut and making it difficult to see. Richard was backing up, away from the dog’s snarling jaws, it’s teeth white against its snapping, growling mouth. 

“CALL IT OFF!” He was bellowing, slack-jawed with terror, Ripper snapped at his ankles and forced him to take another step backwards. “CALL IT OFF, YOU-,” 

“Bitch?” Tessa supplied, so callously that Emmy felt another layer of fear apply itself over the terror that was already coating her heart and lungs, like an oil painting, her mouth was slick with it, the dog pulled back its gums and latched it’s jaws around Richard’s ankle, “You ought to be pleased,” Tessa said, folding her arms, not even bothering to keep the gun on him any longer, he took another, limping step towards the window, trying to kick Ripper off, “You wanted a rabid dog put down. Now you’re going to get one.” 

And all at once, Ripper lunged on his hind legs, a burst of powerful, coiled muscles and flashing fangs, Richard recoiled and lost his balance and hit the edge of the shattered window frame, and screamed. Ripper let go, and then he was gone, whisked away as if by a bird, the scream carrying and then growing quickly fainter and then, much more quickly, stopping altogether. Emmy thought the wind had been knocked out of her, the breath stollen from her lungs as she watched her husband disappear. _Forty-seven stories_ , she thought to herself, but couldn’t have managed to express why that was her first thought, why it was even a thought at all. Below them wailed the deadly ironic call of a siren. Tessa stared past the hole and into the sky like she was seeing through to the light of the stars. Ripper trotted back to her, and his head pressing against her hand seemed to snap her to. Benson was turning the black haired man’s body over with his foot, with the same expression one might wear when wiping dog shit off their shoes. 

“Not too much blood,” he said, casually, but Emmy’s ears were ringing loud as bells and his voice sounded strange and distorted, “Coppers will be here in ten, fifteen minutes. Solomons’ men shouldn’t have too much trouble cl-,” he began, but Tessa looked at him, and Emmy saw that her pale chest was expanding and contracting, her finely carved collarbones exposed and tightened by the tension, her breaths panting. 

“It’s not Alfie’s men who are coming,” she said, faintly, and Emmy was wondering who the hell she was, who she was looking at, the woman before her who had shot a man between the eyes and sent another pummeling to his death with hardly a second glance, who had _men_ coming, like some kind of- some kind of gangster-, 

Benson’s eyes widened and brows raised. “You called _him_?” he said, and Emmy felt like she had fallen, too, like she had hit the pavement below, she didn’t know who they were talking about or what was going on and none of it was real, it couldn’t be real, it wasn’t happening-, 

She realized she had begun speaking her thoughts aloud when Tessa’s dark eyes snapped to her, and she wished they wouldn’t, she backed away slowly like if she kept her movements small enough, Tessa might not notice. The other woman’s eyes softened. She said something in another language to the dog, whose black and rust coat gleamed with a healthy shine that made the stain of red along his jowls somehow brighter. Emmy thought she caught Stella’s name. Ripper lumbered back off down the hall to the master bedroom, the nub of his tail wagging slightly like they had just got done with a nice game of fetch, and there was a knock at the front door. 

“Hello, Victoria,” a voice called, with a European accent Emmy couldn’t, in her current state, place, “your employer would like a word with you. In person,” Emmy watched Tessa’s face, wondering who on earth this _Victoria_ person was, and through her blurry vision and pain and shock, she was surprised to see, for the first time, a flash of fear cross Tessa’s lovely features, her full lips pressing together into a thin line. Emmy wasn’t sure if she was relieved that it would seem Tessa was capable of that emotion at all, or flat-out terrified of whatever it was that could make her so. 

  
  
  


_THE ATLANTIC OCEAN_

  
  
  


They were on a ship. The cabin was rather small, and reminded Emmy of the rooms her maids had lived in when she was a child. There were two sparsely bedded bunks, and only one table, nailed to the floor. Benson and Tessa were speaking in low tones with their heads bowed together as if kneeled on pews, and Emmy could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the silenced gunshot, saw Richard disappearing into thin air, like a ghost. 

“You sure about this?” she heard Benson say, the pleasing sound of his rolling accent undermined somewhat by the worry in his voice. Tessa sighed. 

“What do you think?” she retorted, cuttingly, and then pulled back, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, I- It’s just…,” she trailed off, like the words had grown wings and flown away from her, but Benson nodded as if he understood completely. 

“It’s been a while,” he told her, nodding like he agreed, and she winced like she had pulled an old wound open. 

“Yes,” she responded, in a hushed voice, Emmy could see the curl of her long lashes against her profile. “It’s been a while,” she repeated, to herself, Benson took her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. She was biting down on her lip. “I’m not ready,” she admitted, like his kindness had strung it out of her, “To go back.” 

“Would you ever be?” Benson asked, softly, and she gave a sad little laugh. 

“We don’t have a choice,” her words were a question she was begging him to refute, but he shook his head, thick brown hair still neatly combed like he had spent his day at the barber’s instead of… well. 

“No,” he said. “We don’t have a choice. We are, as the kids say, shit out of luck.” 

Tessa released another tight breath like her lungs weren’t holding air correctly. Stella murmured and turned over in her sleep, a small lump on the lumpier mattress. 

“Could be worse,” Benson reasoned. “Could be dead.” 

“Death would be easier,” Tessa muttered, looking over at her dreaming daughter. Benson hummed. “I love you, you know,” she said, turning back to him, and Emmy saw his kind eyes crinkle a bit at the corners. 

“I know,” he said, quietly, his voice full of an emotion Emmy found rather strange. Love, in her world, was for possessions. Not people. “You should try to get some sleep,” he told her, and Emmy couldn’t see or hear Tessa’s response, but it must have been to the negative, because Benson said, “Come on, then. Lets go above, have a cig.” And they climbed the ladder leading to the deck, and Emmy was alone, always alone, and she clung to her threadbare pillow and missed the sound of her son’s laughter. 

  
  
  


_THE DRAKE HOTEL, CHICAGO, YESTERDAY, 4:53PM_

  
  
  


The men were wearing caps. It felt like being pummeled. It felt worse than watching the light flicker out of the Spanish man’s eyes, and it should have been the other way around, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t. The brims flashed silver, and Tessa’s knuckles were white against the bedroom door as she knocked, as they stood behind her. 

“It’s me,” she said, “It’s alright, it’s safe to come out now.” 

The white paint glowed in her vision, swimming, and all she could think was _Stella Stella Stella_ and another name, always, over and over in her head, glinting razors and scarlet blood on white teeth. The door opened. 

Mrs. McCraken was in a right state and Emmy was worse off, staring at the walls like she had never been inside a building before. Tessa ignored them both and ran to the closet door. Her daughter was curled into a defensive ball with her knees hugged to her chest, in a corner, behind the skirts of a glittering black gown hung on the rails. Her huge blue eyes seemed even bigger, but there were no tears tracking down her soft cheeks, only a confused expression and a silent mouth. Tessa pulled her close, aware and apathetic of the three men watching, of Mrs. McCraken’s stifled sobs. 

“Who’s that?” One of the men asked, pointing at her daughter. The largest of the three, and the one in the center of the other two, which made Tessa think he was likely looked at as the leader of the Chicago branch. She took Stella’s hand and helped her to her feet, led her over to him, and then let go to remove her necklace, the clasp difficult to undo with shaking fingers. 

“That’s eight thousand pounds,” she said, passing it to him. The emeralds glittered in his hazel eyes. “For not asking questions.” 

Tessa gave Mrs. McCraken her earrings as a pitiful apology. Diamonds worth more money than the woman had likely seen in her life. Emmy didn’t say a word. Benson was eyeing the men, clearly worried they would recognize him as a deserter, but without the cap or the shaved haircut there was no way for them to know. 

They got rid of the body. They drove to the airport, boarded a small, dingy plane, their only compatriots the men who had come to collect them. Emmy spoke for the first time as they stared up at the ship they were meant to board in Boston harbor. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, and her voice was hoarse and her eyes were rimmed with red. Tessa gritted her teeth, swiped her tongue across her lips. 

“England,” she said, and she stepped onto the lowered bridge and walked on. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was short, but ya'll had better be excited about what's coming


	8. Grow Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly, silly Mrs. May; she’s got herself into trouble  
> Ten men, emergencies at hand, they’ve run and got the jumper cables  
> But she feels good, never upset; she’s always been ill but able  
> She can run whenever she wants and everyone knows she will
> 
> How she’d never cut her hair;  
> A smooth, silky lightning in the incandescent air  
> She’s a cool, crazy killer, Mrs. May  
> What they don’t understand is that she’s almost already dead
> 
> Let it into the dark!  
> I can tell whose fault it's gonna be  
> Tinted walls in a shuddered sprawl and a sight too plain to see  
> If you keep moving, you'll get it back  
> And no one's gonna take you away  
> If you feel good, tell 'em quick  
> And no one’s gonna take you, no one’s gonna take you!
> 
> (Let it grow back, let it grow back)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this entire chapter written in my head.... for......... months. and I am so happy with it haha go go read!

_WARWICKSHIRE, BIRMINGHAM, 1927_

  
  


The chill of Arrow House was a relief from the sticky summer heat. May turned a page of her book, licking her fingers to peel apart the nearly-translucent pages. Tommy’s collection was extensive and served to impress, if not enthrall, her. How anyone could find Machiavelli genuinely engaging was beyond her comprehension. She heard the distinctive crunch of gravel under tyres on the drive, and stood, stretching, hoping that Tommy would be in a moderately good mood tonight and she wouldn’t have to suffer through hours of his sullen silences. She padded, barefoot, to the foyer, expecting to see his gray Shelby parked out front, but instead, there was a different vehicle, one she thought belonged to his brothers. The youngest of his siblings slid from the front seat, and he had someone with him. 

_CHARING CROSS, LONDON, 1927_

  
  
  


The station was crowded, exceptionally so, for a Thursday afternoon. The ambiance felt different in every city, but there was a distinctly British sort of bustle going on, the chatter was lower than the Los Angeles streets or Chicago airports, the train horn calling musically over the cadence. Tessa felt like crawling out of her skin, or like she already had, and was now floating above, watching the scene from the perspective of a deity. She was looking for him everywhere, and there was nothing to be done about it. Everything was tweed and leather and the coppery smell of the air, like blood, and hers was thrumming in her veins. She wrapped Ripper’s leash tighter around her fingers. Not out of necessity, because there was none, in fact, the leash was mostly for show. Ripper hated crowds and would not have strayed from her side unless pulled bodily away, and the comfort of his presence and Benson’s towering form behind her was something she clung to, quite literally. Emmy simply looked lost, and Tessa could hardly blame her. Life felt like a rink of ice they were all slipping on, grasping desperately for purchase. But she hadn’t spoken, aside from asking where they were going, and hadn’t asked why, which Tessa was rather grateful for, because she didn’t want to tell her they were trading in the sharks for the wolves, that they were running from danger straight to the devil’s den, that she didn’t know what she was doing or how it would go or even if, when they met with Satan, he would decide to repay Tessa’s cruelty with his own. The air in her lungs felt like water, and the train whistle screamed. 

  
  
  


_WESTMINSTER_

  
  


Tommy wasn’t entirely thrilled at Alfie’s presence in his office at the House, but it was necessary. He had to be back in Birmingham by the time the sun went down. Package delivery from Finn. 

“How do you know Victoria?” he asked, getting right to the point. Alfie shifted in his chair. 

“Never said I did, did I?” he grumbled, and Tommy’s blue eyes narrowed. 

  
  
  


_CHARING CROSS_

  
  
  


“‘Tessa! ‘Ello, love!” said a voice from behind them, and Emmy saw a flicker of surprise cross Tessa’s face, like the person who had spoken wasn’t who she had expected. 

“Alfie,” she said, turning, her arched eyebrows raised slightly. “Hi.” 

The man was bulky and slightly disheveled, all whiskery beard and lowered brows. He was wearing a black felt hat and white linen shirt, covered by a heavy coat, despite the heat of the day, and unsecured suspenders that hung down around his waist like they were making some kind of statement in futility. Stella squealed loudly and ran forward to clutch his leg, which made the serious expression on his face disappear and morph completely, a complete about-face so sudden Emmy found herself questioning his mental state, and he chuckled. 

“There she is,” he said, ruffling Stella’s starlit hair. “Growin’ like a right little weed, isn’t you?” he asked, and Stella grinned up at him. Emmy was rather surprised. Stella was a quiet and withdrawn child, so unlike her own. Ripper seemed to like the man, too, the stub of his tail wagging slightly as he paced forward to lick his hands. The man, Alfie, turned to look at her, and Emmy shrunk back but her shoulder hit a wall of impenetrable brick. 

“And who’s this?” he asked, Tessa’s mouth thinned slightly. 

“Family,” she replied, “kind of.” She hesitated, slightly, and then seemed to bite the bullet. “I didn’t think you would be…” 

“Yeah, right, well,” Alfie said, shuffling his weight against his cane. “He ain’t comin’, sent a brother to come and collect cha in his stead. But I thought,” he said, evenly, “that said brother is likely expecting to find you… somewhat more alone. _Miss Victoria_.” He looked pointedly at Stella, who was mesmerized by the heavy golden rings adorning his fingers. A look of intense relief crossed Tessa’s face, and Alfie seemed offended by it. “Don’t get it twisted, right,” he said, reaching down with a deep grunt to heft Stella into his arms, where she giggled and touched the wiry hairs of his beard. “‘S for my own safety. Don’t want to be caught within fifty kilometers when that fucker finds out what it is, exactly, what it is we’ve done, you an’ me.” 

“Don’t swear around my daughter,” Tessa replied, her lips twisted into something that was half smile and half frown. Emmy couldn’t count on both hands the number of times she had heard Tessa curse around Stella, but held her tongue, because it felt thick and dry in her mouth. Her nerves were frayed like an old, unwinding tapestry. Tessa had been tapping her foot incessantly on the train ride, and it had done nothing to help, nor did the way Benson was craning his head around the platform like he was waiting for an ambush. Emmy wondered, what felt like the seven hundredth time that day alone, whether they were watching for Edward, or the vague someone whose men had shown up at the penthouse to clean away a body, and couldn’t decide which one she would rather it not be. 

“I’ll put ‘em up in a hotel,” Alfie muttered, keen eyes narrowed. “One our mutual friend, right, doesn’t have fingers in. I’d tell ya, you know, say hello for me, yeah, but I saw the cunt only this morning. Awfully suspicious lad.” He adjusted Stella, who blinked luminously. He had ignored Benson’s presence completely, though Emmy couldn’t have said why. He seemed quite strange. 

“You told him,” Tessa said, flatly, and Emmy’s head was swimming from the conversation. 

“Hmmph,” Alfie replied, “No. No, that, I didn’t do. Doesn’t mean he ain’t curious, though, does it? Said ‘suspicious’, didn’t I, not daft.” 

Tessa sighed like she knew what he was getting at, and crossed her arms. Her blonde hair shimmered over her shoulder like spun gold. “Look, you won’t get into any trouble for saving my life. Even if we stole his men to do it. And as for Rockefeller… if he already knows, I’ll explain, and if he doesn’t, I’ll tell him. He’ll understand.” But she looked unsure, which made Emmy’s stomach twist nervously, and Alfie tutted. 

“Well, you can’t be sure about that, can you, lass? Haven’t seen the bloke in years. Don’t know him anymore,” Alfie said, peering at her from under his heavy brows. Tessa tilted her head. 

“Wish me luck, then,” she said, “for both our sakes.” Alfie grunted and shifted his hold on Stella slightly. 

“You want me to take the dog?” he asked, instead of responding, and Tessa shook her head. 

“He stays with me,” she told him, “Insurance policy.” 

“Speaking from experience, right,” Alfie said, idly, scratching behind Ripper’s ears, “you want leverage over them crazy gypsies, you’re going to need to do better than a pup and a prayer.” 

Tessa stood on her toes and kissed his scraggly cheek. “That’s what I have you for, isn’t it?” she asked, and Alfie rolled his eyes. 

“Fuck no, it isn’t,” he muttered, but he collected Emmy and Benson like a grouchy mother hen and left Tessa on the platform, with Stella perched on his shoulders, pointing at the pigeons in the sky. 

  
  
  


Tessa sat on a metal bench and fingered the peeling paint. A boy approached through the steam of the departing train, the whistle shrill as the dropping of a bomb. He looked familiar, but it took her a moment to place him as he got closer, his youthful, haughty expression morphing into one of surprise. 

“Finn?” she asked, and he pulled up short, staring at her in shock. 

“You’re not Victoria,” he stated, and Tessa gave a halfhearted shrug. 

“Not really,” she admitted, and he looked around the platform like he was waiting for his brothers to jump out and yell “Gotcha!” 

“Uhh, Tessa, hello,” Finn said, very obviously trying to connect invisible dots and failing, “Does, er… Is Tommy expecting you?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Tessa answered, dryly, standing. “Oh, and Finn? It’s Mrs. Rockefeller, now, if you please.” 

  
  
  
  


_WESTMINSTER_

  
  
  


In his dreams, she spoke louder. During the days it was only whispers, mostly, in the back of his mind, an inner narrative in her words. Things she had said, and had never said. A few times, during the first couple months, he had taken doses of poppy he wasn’t entirely sure he was going to wake from. And she had been so clear, then, it was like she was standing right beside him. And then her voice changed to Ada’s, and even higher than the heavens, he couldn’t stomach the shame of that. He had eased up on the opium, so that he didn’t make Karl an orphan twice over. And because of the disappointment in May’s eyes the one time she had visited the house without giving him a warning, and found him only moderately conscious and very much not alone. She hadn’t said a word, although she dogged his calls for the next few months afterward. He still wasn’t sure what it was that had made her pick up the phone again. It didn’t feel like an improvement, really, between them, but things rarely were. Sometimes when he was with her, when he let his guard down, the fear would come slithering back up his throat, like it did in the darkness, every time he closed his eyes, every time he, for so much as a moment, remembered. 

A woman with hair like fire had blood splashed across her abdomen, her neck, her arm, drenching her in it. She lifted a gun. He was both glad, and he was not. He wanted to be able to keep looking at her, and he never wanted to look at her again, not like that. They were in a field, greener than emeralds, she was wearing a dress white as a pearl, seeping ruby red. 

“ _Starve_ ,” she told him, her voice echoing and ringing in his head and as he heard the sound of the bullet, his eyes opened. 

  
  
  


_WARWICKSHIRE_

  
  
  


“Finn?” May prompted, as soon as she had made it through the door. Finn’s companion had already turned and began walking away from the house, a huge dog trotting beside her. _Where on earth is she going?_ May wondered, but the question was less important than, “Who is that?” 

Finn ignored her pointing finger that gestured at the blonde woman’s retreating form. 

“Mrs. Rockefeller,” Finn mumbled, with a slight roll of his eyes, darker than Tommy’s. 

“And what is Mrs. Rockefeller… What is she… Where… Does Tommy know?” May finished, dropping her hand and pressing two fingers to her temple. Arrow House. Never a dull moment. Finn shrugged apathetically. 

“Don’t know,” he said, and then, “Have fun.” And then he swung around with a loping stride and called, “I’m off to shoot some of his guns. Tell ‘im I’ll reimburse him for the ammunition.” 

“No, you won’t,” May called back, over her shoulder, and heard Finn’s snort carried on the breeze. She sighed, and straightened her shoulders. 

“Goddamn Peaky Blinders,” she muttered, under her breath, and set out to follow the woman down to the stables. 

  
  
  
  


_WARWICKSHIRE_

  
  
  


The woman stood before one of the stalls, a stall that had only become occupied that very same day. May had brought Starchaser down in the box van per Tommy’s request. Wanted to teach Karl to ride a real horse, he had said. Starchaser seemed a bit ambitious, in May’s opinion. She was a skittish, high-spirited animal. But the glossy black mare turned to stare at the stranger, just as May was, although she could only see the back of her head as she approached the stall. The dog turned to look at her, a handsome beast with such expressive eyes she half expected it to speak, but neither it nor the blonde woman did. 

“Hello?” May called, her greeting entirely ignored, the other woman's eyes fixed on the horse. “I’m sorry, is there… Something I can help you with?” 

The woman glanced at her, very briefly, and May’s lips parted slightly. She looked like someone May had seen before, but she was sure if they had met she would have remembered. She was usually quite good with faces. The stables trapped the heat and turned it cool in their shade, the afternoon light golden as an autumn apple. The woman held up her palm, long, pale fingers. She lowered her palm. 

“Isi, chavi,” she said, to the mare, “Miri gast pakvora.” The language sounded familiar, too, but she couldn’t _place_ it, waiting with oddly baited breath. Tommy did not appreciate people poking around in his business, and certainly not showing themselves to his stables. But the horse knickered softly, and took three steps forward, dragging her hooves lazily across the straw, pressed her velvet nose to the woman’s hand. She smiled, gently, May could see the pull of her plush lips, and then she turned, and blinked at May like she was confused to see her still standing there. May wished she was wearing high heels, overly conscious of her still-bare feet. The woman’s clothing was simple, but elegant, entirely black, fine lines and finer material, too tight to be entirely respectable, a lower neckline than May would have chosen for a night on the town. May would have assumed she was one of Tommy’s whores, if not for the jewels that sparkled against her skin at her wrists and ears, her neck covered by a black silk handkerchief. No whore would have been able to afford such finery, no matter how much Tommy was paying them. Neither of them spoke. The woman just looked at her, for several, tense seconds, then swept her eyes across the stables, like a painter trying to determine whether a masterpiece was a fake. She had large, dark eyes that seemed an off-shade of green, and lush lips painted a color like blood, but there was none in her pale cheeks. 

“Mrs. Rockefeller?” May asked, finally, her patience wearing thin. The blonde gave her the same curious observation she had their surroundings, her head tilted slightly. “What is it that you’re doing here?” 

The woman turned back to the horse. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” she asked, musingly, and May crossed her arms but could not argue. The woman’s voice, now that May understood the language she was speaking, was unique, distinctively American but too smooth across the vowels. 

“Yes,” May said. And then, for no real reason, “She’s mine.” 

The woman turned nearly all the way towards her at her words, turning her head sharply, an expression of disbelief on her face that May didn’t feel was warranted. 

“That bastard,” she hissed through her teeth, soft with venom, turning away again, and then, suddenly, everything clicked into place like a puzzle. May took a step back in surprise. 

“What’s your name?” she asked, in a carefully measured tone, wondering if she had ever been more unsure about someone’s intentions in her life. “Your first name.” 

“Victoria,” the blonde replied, smoothly, not looking at her. She lied easily, May noticed. It didn’t fool her. 

“No. It’s not,” May retorted, and the woman finally met her eyes with something other than cool disregard. She gave May a slow once-over, and May realized she wasn’t as tall as she had originally thought. Only about her own size, actually, even with her heels. 

“And you’re not an idiot,” she said, slowly, and then nodded as if to herself. “He could never stomach a clueless woman.” May blinked. There was really only one “he” she could be referring to. Strands of her hair caught the shimmering light, it turned Star’s glossy eye momentarily translucent as the horse dropped her head and scratched her nose on her forelock. May recognized a stand-off when she was staring one in the face, they happened with consistent frequency in the lucrative atmosphere of the upper rungs of society. But she wasn’t about to wade into that pool without even being certain of her opponent’s name. 

“Find me one woman more clueless than Thomas Shelby, and I’ll eat my hat,” May said, and to her surprise, the blonde’s lips twitched in another faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Something told May perhaps she ought to hold her tongue, but curiosity got the best of her, as it always did. She wanted proof, so she spoke. “You know,” she said, casual as she could be, waiting to gauge the woman’s reaction, “He told me that your hair was _red_.” There was a beat, a pause, and the woman brushed her comment off like a raindrop on feathers. 

“Did he?” the woman asked, mindlessly patting Star’s nose. The white spot like an upside-down cross shone against her black coat in the golden afternoon light and she snorted dust from her nostrils. 

“Ages ago,” May said, not sure why she even remembered.

“Mm,” she said, and that was all. After a momentary pause wherein she seemed to be contemplating something, she clicked her tongue, seeming to come to a decision, and fingered her blonde locks with a faint frown on her crimson lips. Then she reached up, and tugged, and off came the wig, and down tumbled bright auburn waves, so long they brushed her tailbone, copper like dropped coins catching the sun. She shook her head, letting the tousled mane fall around her shoulders, and then she sighed with a note that sounded close to relief. May hadn’t seen hair such a vivid shade in all her life. 

“My mother would turn over in her grave if I ever dyed it,” she said, quietly, by way of explanation, which May hadn’t asked for because she would not have expected to receive one. Tessa stared down at the wig, tendrils of telltale red trailing across her face as she did so. _She’s young,_ Tommy had said, a lifetime ago. She looked young, sure. But she didn’t seem it. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Tessa,” May said, less to be polite than to make a point, and Tessa blinked at her and then nodded. She did not offer to shake May’s hand. She gave May another long, sweeping look, gave a smirk that flashed white teeth, and told her, 

“At least he still has good taste, I suppose,” And then turned and walked out of the stable, tossing the blonde wig carelessly into an empty feed bucket, leaving May standing in the glitters of swirling hay dust caught in the setting sun, trying to decide if she was angry or afraid or neither. 

  
  
  


_WESTMINSTER_

  
  
  


He blinked frantically in the sudden brightness of the morning light, his chest heaving, gasping onto the white bedsheets. Tessa shifted beside him, sitting up, concern in her voice. 

“ _Tommy_ -,” she said, and lifted a hand to his shoulder, but her touch never came, he turned to look at her, but the crisp cotton beneath her had been stained a violent shade of- 

“Not again,” he begged, under his breath, “Please, not again-,” 

“ _Tommy_?” She asked, her brows furrowed like she didn’t know what was wrong, 

“Tommy!” A voice barked, for a moment, only a moment, he thought the voice had changed to Ada, but no, “Thomas!” Polly snapped, and he jerked upright and reached for the gun under his pillow, but it wasn’t there, only hard oak that smelled faintly of wood stain. The office was all impressionist colors in his sleep-blurred eyes, gold and mahogany. “Christ, boy. When is the last time you _slept_?” Polly was demanding, standing over him, a firm hand on her hip. Tommy didn’t respond. His neck was sore and his head was pounding. 

“You were talking,” Polly said, prompting. He didn’t reply to that either. “Saying things.” She fixed him with a piercing stare. “You only talk in your sleep when you-,” 

“Polly? Fuck off,” Tommy said, rubbing his throbbing temple, and she withdrew herself imperiously. 

“Don’t be late to a meeting _you_ called,” she warned him, shrugging her satin coat over her shoulders. “Fall asleep at the wheel, and I’ll give your car to Finn. See you at yours.” And then with a few precise, clicking footsteps, she walked out, closing the door a bit too aggressively behind her. 

  
  
  


_WARWICKSHIRE_

  
  
  


Tessa was sitting with her legs crossed on a sofa like she was the queen of the English-speaking world when May entered, and from the looks of the several already discarded cigarettes in the ashtray beside her, one of which was still smoldering slightly, it looked as if she was chain smoking. May sat on an armchair across from her, watching the bounce of her foot crossed over her knee. A grandfather clock ticked from its spot against the wall, and Tessa glanced at it, then the drive, then back at the clock. 

“Your poker face could use some work,” May recommended, rather wishing for a thirsty amount of gin herself. Tessa stilled suddenly, dropped her leg, and faced May with a face so blankly cold that May’s brow furrowed. Then she smiled, somewhat sarcastically, and began tapping her fingers on the arm of the couch. May blinked, nonplussed. 

“Learned from the best,” Tessa said, in a completely unaffected tone, looking again at the drive through the window. May was suddenly reminded of sitting in that very room not a week before, with Tommy and Karl, and Karl saying something along those lines, or maybe she was just remembering Tommy’s rare smile. She had been taught eternal poise in the face of uncertainty. It was coming in handy, at the moment. Tessa didn’t seem to feel the same, shifting and bouncing her leg, until, finally, she seemed to break, asked, 

“You don’t happen to have any cocaine, do you?” 

And May snapped her eyes to her. 

“You do snow?” she asked, flatly, and she expected Tessa to become defensive, but she only blinked impassively. 

“I suppose that means _you_ don’t,” Tessa replied, sounding resigned, and went back to her tapping. After a few seconds of silence, she glanced through the window again, and added, “Don’t mention that to Tommy, please. Moment of weakness. I’ve been doing quite well, recently. Perhaps not _very_ recently, but, considering...," her words trailed off, went back to her watching. 

“Mum’s the word,” May said, mostly because she was still trying to work out why it would matter if that was something Tommy knew. He was certainly no stranger to the white powder. Not that he had ever mentioned it, but, well. Like Tessa said, May wasn’t stupid, after all. The other woman took a deep pull of her cigarette, the smoke coiling around her like a net. And then, all at once, car was pulling down the drive, the engine rumbling, the steel exterior catching the last rays of the sunset. Tessa tensed visibly. 

“He’s here,” May said, and Tessa looked like she had forgotten to breathe. “Oh,” May said, remembering, suddenly, “There’s a… family meeting. Tonight.” Tessa turned to her with such a deer-in-the-headlights expression that May felt rather sorry for her despite herself. “Here,” May clarified, and Tessa’s frozen muscles melted and she nodded very faintly. 

“Perfect,” she muttered, and May got the distinct impression she found it anything but. 

  
  
  
  


The front door opened. Tessa was quite sure she was vibrating clean out of her stockings, but when she looked down at her hands, they were still. She would die for her daughter, for Benson, even for Emmy. She would kill for them. She wasn’t sure she could manage _this_. She kept swallowing down the overpowering impulse to run, and an equally masochistic desire to… see. To see him. Like a blind man begging for one more glimpse of the sky. She was torn on a molecular level, between atoms, and then the front door was opening with the same heavy creak it had always made, and she wondered if she emptied her guts onto the plush rug whether May would hold her hair back for her, and thought not, so she choked on the acid in her throat and waited, and Tommy strode into the sitting room. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to @villanelle for calling out that this would be a cliffhanger lmao luv u babey


	9. Icky Thump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redhead señorita  
> Looking dead  
> Came and said  
> Need a bed  
> In Español

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I KNOW its been foreverrrr life has been absolutely crazy for me recently!! but the move went well and I am feeling more settled in so :) 
> 
> parts of this chapter are interlaced narration that jumps between two... uhh... important characters lmao anyways just thought I would give you a heads up/good luck lmao

_WARWICKSHIRE, 1927_

It was less like Tommy had _seen_ a ghost than it was as if he was currently staring at one. He had been speaking to Polly in a low tone, gesturing with his hands, clearly explaining something, when he looked up to the room’s current occupants. Well, an occupant. May wasn’t entirely sure he had noticed her presence at all, his eyes sliding directly to Tessa, stopping dead in his tracks, the smart click of his dress shoes stalling like an engine. If he had been holding something, even a Toft like herself would have taken the bet he would have dropped it. _Not an expected visit, then,_ May surmised. Tommy blinked his nearly translucent eyes, balked, and seemed, for the first time in as long as she had known him, at a loss for words, his lips forming a dozen half-questions. Tessa did not deign to speak either. She was pale enough to be an actual ghost, that much was certain. Polly’s face seemed almost smug, like someone who had seen the events before her unfold already inside a crystal ball. May didn’t think she had ever felt more uncomfortable in her life, but wasn’t about to make everything worse and draw attention to herself. But then Tommy looked at her, and then back at Tessa, and then at Polly, and then the mask pulled back down over his features and his face was uninterpretable again, and he walked forward towards her. Tessa stood, gracefully, and her eyes met his. May felt that if he had been walking towards _her_ with that kind of murderous intent, she would have tried to put some distance between them. Tommy approached until he was only an arm’s length away from her, and May wondered with a sick lurch whether she was about to witness her first example of spectacular violence. She had never, until this very moment, considered that perhaps he didn’t speak of her not for love, but for hatred. And how different were they, really? She didn’t know how things had ended between them, after all, and his shoulders were squared and tense. He lifted his hand. May saw Tessa blink, and then remain still. Tommy reached up, and tugged at the silk scarf wrapped around her neck. May was completely baffled, glancing at Polly, whose mouth was set in a thin line that indicated she knew, somehow, exactly what was going on. The scarf fluttered off. Even across the room, May could see that underneath, there were three vertical scars, whiter even than Tessa’s skin. 

Tommy spoke. His voice was low. 

May couldn’t see his expression or understand his words, but she belatedly recognized the language that Tessa had spoken to Starchaser, the one the Shelby’s used when they didn’t want other people to know what it was that they were saying. She did have a clear view of Tessa’s expression, however, and despite Tommy only having said a handful of words at most, she looked like she had just taken a lead kiss, her brow drawn and lips parted. She did not respond, and stood very still, their stares locked.

Tommy glanced down at the massive dog, who was regarding him with a mildly curious sort of look, tense but unaggressive. 

“Ov yilo rikono?” He asked, his tone nearly identical to the dog’s expression. 

“Arvah,” Tessa answered, which sounded like an affirmation. After a pause that made May’s skin crawl with apprehension, Tommy spoke again, something else May didn’t understand, in a serious tone, a question followed by an intentional pause and a pointed “Mrs. _Rockefeller_?” Tessa blinked her curling lashes, slicked black with makeup, making her dark eyes darker. 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Tessa answered, in English, strange accent clipping her cadence. She tipped her head slightly. “But you already knew that, or you would have shot me by now.” 

“Or you, me.” Tommy replied, pointedly, and Tessa pressed her lips together. 

“I do owe you one,” she countered, smoothly, and he scoffed, said, rather coldly, told her,

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you cashed that in.” May was still wondering what it was Tessa owed him when, for some unfathomable reason, Tessa gave a small smile, despite the keen edge in Tommy’s tone. 

“Suppose that makes us even, then,” she responded, cooly, and May was relatively certain she had listened to a more coherent conversation between old men two bottles deep. Tommy was silent, and May’s breaths seemed loud in the still air. 

“On some scores,” he said, after several seconds where even the dog seemed to be holding his breath. “Recent events have not added points in your favor. Namely, faking your identity to steal my men and murder a member of the most powerful family in the world.” Tessa rolled her eyes slightly, which May would not have cautioned as an intelligent move. She wondered if perhaps they were still speaking in another language, because she couldn’t conceive what she was hearing. It sounded like something she would read about in the morning paper, not hear discussed, firsthand. Aside from glowering at him slightly over the bite of frost in his voice, Tessa seemed relatively unperturbed, which surprised May as much as their incredibly odd greeting. 

“I _borrowed_ your men,” Tessa retorted, some of the color back in her cheeks. “And returned them all in one piece, with significantly heavier pockets. And that wasn’t murder, it was suicide. The coroner’s report has already been released. Company man couldn’t handle the pressures of the job, decides to off himself. Jumps from a window. If I had wanted to murder him, I would have just shot him in the head.” The last sentence was delivered with a pointed chin, and May saw Tommy shake his head sharply, the clipped undersides of his hair flashing slightly. 

“Oh, right, like you did the other one, eh, _Victoria_?” Tommy snapped, and Tessa crossed her arms. To May’s left, Polly sighed and checked the watch on her wrist, its mother of pearl surface glinting. 

“Christ, hasn’t even been two minutes,” she muttered under her breath, May realized her mouth had been slightly open, stupefied, and quickly snapped it closed. 

“Leave,” Tommy commanded, and for several moments May thought he had been speaking to Tessa and was surprised by her lack of reaction, before she saw he had turned and was addressing _her._ Her and Polly. Tommy lifted an impatient brow. “I need a word with her,” he continued, pointedly, “Alone.” 

Polly scoffed slightly, and brushed past him. “Tessa,” she said, and lifted her arms, like she was greeting a long-lost daughter. “It’s good to see you, love. You look well.” 

“Thank you,” Tessa said, accepting her embrace. “As do you.” 

All May had known was that she and Tommy had been engaged for a grand total of twelve or so hours, before Tessa had disappeared, a day after their “enemies” had nearly killed the entire family. And now here she was, out of the blue, discussing murder. May admitted to herself that when she had considered it, she had not imagined it like this. It wasn’t as if they had actually _been_ married, after all. She had assumed that Tommy kept his family business and personal life, what little there was, as separate from Tessa as he did to her. That did not seem to be the case, and it unsettled her. Or perhaps it was just the content of their conversation that she found unnerving. Polly stepped back and shot the already-turned back of Tommy’s head a glare before saying, 

“Meeting starts in five,” and sweeping from the room. May looked at Tessa, who seemed to sense the weight of her stare. Tessa’s foot had stopped tapping, her fingers were still. All that flickered was her almond eyes, to meet May’s, and May let the meaning linger before she followed Polly through the door. 

“What did he say to her?” May asked, once she had caught up, wondering if she really wanted to know, if she was ready to hear proof of the cruelty of Thomas Shelby that she had been told so much about. “In gypsy?” Polly turned to look at her with a cocked brow. 

“He told her that she bleeds in his dreams,” Polly said, leaning a shoulder of her svelte frame against the wall, her words heavy like a ten stone weight. It only served to make May more lost.

“Is she….?” May began, and settled on the one thing that mattered. “Do you trust her?” 

“With my life,” Polly responded, gravely. And then she gave May a pointed look. “That doesn’t mean _you_ should.” 

“And why not?” 

“Look, May,” Polly began, like a parent delivering unfortunate news to a child, the death of a beloved pet, “The last girl who came to me with questions that should have been addressed to Thomas ended up having to flee the country and run for her life. In our world, things get messy fast, and you die clutching your cross or you use it to stab death in the heart. I’m not threatening you,” she added, because May’s eye had narrowed, “I don’t need to. Now, you’re a sweet girl, but it always starts that way. If there are things Thomas keeps from you, it’s for your own sake. Some things are best left alone.” 

“Alright, fine,” May said, with a vague shrug. “Just answer me one question.” Polly regarded her, clever and calculating, but remaining silent, which May took as agreement. “Why shouldn’t I trust her?” 

Polly grinned, slowly, a sly smirk. “Because she’s a Shelby,” she replied, and May only had time to let her words sink in before a maid scurried down the hall they were paused in the middle of, only to spot them standing there, and hastily turn around again. 

“Hello, love,” Polly called, casually. “What is it that you’re doing?” 

The maid turned with an expression like a thief caught in the middle of robbing the cookie jar. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Gray,” she said, with a wince, “There’s, we were, ah-,” 

“We?” Polly asked, raising her arched brows, and then took a few steps forward and peered around the corner, where May could see a gaggle of women desperately looking like they were meant to be there. Polly rolled her eyes. 

“You thought there would be a row,” she said, as if the explanation was obvious, and the maid gave a rather cheeky smile. “Spies in this house fall in holes and never crawl out of them,” Polly said, her tone soft but her words pointed. The maid took her skirts in her hands and shuffled away hastily. Polly frowned after her, and glanced back over her shoulder at the closed door to Tommy’s office, which was silent as it had been when it was a tree, no voices floating out beyond it. _So she was wondering, too,_ May thought, and found herself absolutely unable to imagine Tommy raising his voice at anyone, much less a small, beautiful woman, and was beginning to wonder the depths of the sea of knowledge she did not possess about him, and about the other side of his life. 

  
  
  
  


_..._

There was a new portrait on the wall, of Tommy in an impeccable dark navy suit, and she was staring at it instead of him as he walked into the room, because she couldn’t bear to. The artist hadn’t quite managed to capture the violent beauty of his eyes, but to be fair, it could prove impossible. She would know. She looked down into that same brilliant stare every day of her life, and yet there she was, unable to face it. 

She wasn’t ready to hear him say anything. She wasn’t ready to see him at all, to be here, she wanted nothing more in the world and yet having it felt like barbed wire wrapped around her neck. The midas touch. There was more silence as he approached, and she got the feeling he had decided not to speak until she met his gaze, and, partially due to a refusal to admit to herself she was that afraid, partially because she didn’t want him to think she was afraid at all, she did. And he was walking closer. Dark hair, eyes like the ocean and a sharp suit and absolute composure. His face was blank, sculpted cheeks and sloping nose the same as she remembered, she had thought he would look older, but he didn’t, really. His hair was shaved a bit closer on the sides, his face more hollow, everything sharper, harder. Like he had replaced the razors in his cap with his own bones, carrying them close like weapons. She remembered, suddenly, seeing him at that fundraiser she had attended with Jack, thinking the same thing, and felt like she was on a ship in the middle of a stormy sea, tossed from side to side, back and forth, round and round in circles. _Here we go again,_ she thought, and braced for the impact like the earth waiting for an asteroid. 

It seemed to take him forever to cross the carpet, and then he was suddenly close enough to touch. She could feel her heart leaping into her throat with every wild beat, Tommy was reaching out for her with that deep, undecipherable expression. She thought him about as likely to cut her as to embrace her, but instead of doing either, he untied the scarf at her neck with a quick motion, and his eyes dropped and his lips parted. She felt like she had been trapped in ice, cold pricking her neck and fingers. And then there was the voice, as he looked back up, glittering and raw. 

“You bleed in my dreams,” he told her, and the the Romani came back to her easily, because it was in his voice and she heard him speaking it when she repeated the sound of it to herself inside her head. She understood that he was speaking gypsy, and she understood what he had said, and then, with a jolt like his lighting eyes, she understood what he meant. She was seized by such an unexpectedly strong urge to throw her arms around his broad shoulders that she wobbled a bit on her heels before pulling herself back, remembering herself, reminding herself. So she just looked at him, and wondered if he could see her heart shattering behind her eyes. She wanted to say _I’m sorry,_ she couldn’t say anything at all. He wiped his face clean like chalk from a blackboard, all trace of surprise or pain or anything at all, gone. 

“Is that the dog?” he asked, nodding very barely down at Ripper. She had replied in his language before considering it, and the words felt both bulky and unfamiliar on her tongue and intimately, painfully familiar, like a shot of liquor. He blinked at her, judged her, asked her quietly, 

“Have you betrayed my family, _Mrs. Rockefeller_?” 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she assured him, feeling lightheaded, her heart thudding, too unsteady to attempt translating her words. “But you already knew that, or you would have shot me by now.” It was safer for him to assume she was armed. She would be daft to believe he wasn’t. 

“Or you, me,” he returned, with a challenging look on his handsome features, and she was trying not to blink too much, to show any weakness. Definitely armed, or so good at bluffing that it didn’t even matter. 

“I do owe you one,” she countered, and his eyes dropped like two blue tears to her right arm, the scar on her bicep covered by her dress, but then he scoffed. 

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you cashed that in,” he told her, and she smirked slightly, unable to stop herself, shocked at how easily it came back, it all came back, the push and pull and rhythm, like the cooling tide, the heat of the blood in her veins. 

“Suppose that makes us even, then,” she said, and he stared at her, lamplight eyes framed by black lashes, nearly-black hair tousled from removing his hat. He blinked, very slowly. 

“On some scores. Recent events have not added points in your favor. You want to fake your identity in order to steal my men so they can help you _kill_ someone, you pick up a fucking telephone and you ask me yourself.” This was, in all truth, not what Tessa had expected him to be angry with her for, but she supposed of all her recent crimes, murder, somehow, ranked rather low on her priority list. She didn’t like what that said about the others. She wasn’t sure she liked what it said about herself. 

“I _borrowed_ your men, I didn’t _steal_ them,” Tessa corrected, even though she had explicitly referred to her actions as “stealing” to Alfie not four hours ago. The identity faking, well. There were roles to play in the game of survival. Tommy glared at her, arrogant and handsome and every inch like staring into the face of a reaper, and she kept her spine straight despite feeling brittle as bird bones. “And returned them all in one piece, with significantly heavier pockets. Anyway, that wasn’t murder, it was suicide. The coroner’s report has already been released. Company man couldn’t handle the pressures of the job, decides to off himself. Jumps from a window. If I had wanted to murder him, I would have just shot him in the head.” 

“Oh, right, like you did the other one. Eh, _Victoria_?” Tommy bit, a dare on his face, a warning sign. She was lucky he was speaking to her at all, most like. Lucky he hadn’t ordered his big brother to put a bullet in her skull. She crossed her arms defensively at the thought. To May’s left, Polly gave a slightly exasperated sigh, and Tessa was suddenly, forcibly reminded that there were other people in the room, witnesses to her evisceration that she would prefer to have far removed. Tommy seemed torn from a trance as well, because he snapped his attention to their two onlookers and said, in a voice of absolute authority, “Leave.” 

May’s eyebrows shot up, but Polly only rolled her dark pupils like dice. Tommy stared at them both as if he wasn’t sure why they weren’t already gone. “I need a word with her,” he elaborated, in a tone that suggested he didn’t enjoy being required to do so. “Alone.” 

  
  


_..._

The shake of her fingers was becoming difficult to suppress, and Tessa found herself considering likely hiding places for snow within the room that she could search. Polly greeted her warmly, and Tessa rather thought it was an apology, one Tessa didn’t need and wouldn’t have expected anyway. And then May gave her a very clear look of warning that really, all things considered, should have been the other way around, and then they were alone. She felt like an animal that had knowingly crawled into a trap. Tommy took out his cigarettes, blunt fingers at odds with his full lips and wide eyes, pretty enough to lure in prey, deadly enough to kill it. That was the thing about base natures. You can put a collar on a tiger and call it a cat, but the beautiful coat and the fangs always go hand in hand whether it sleeps on a velvet pillow or in a tree. 

“May I?” Tessa asked, gesturing at the case, desperate for something to do with her hands. He selected one carefully, tapped the end of it against the open silver case. 

“You run out?” he asked, and she knew what he was really asking was if she still smoked. She kept quiet, watched him, waited for him to hand her one. He did, with a calculating expression, and stepped closer to flick the lighter for her, and he smelled different, darker, new aftershave, probably, but the cigarettes were the same and the harsh smoke tickled down her throat as she inhaled. Tommy cupped his hand to light his own, his defined jaw stuck out for a moment, then filtering his first drag of the smoke up through his nose. He did not speak. 

“I was under the impression that you wanted a word with me,” she said, and her prompting got her a slightly tilted head in response, his cheekbones casting shadows on the haunted angles of his face. She realized, with a very strange sensation, that Tommy and Stella’s eyes, while the exact same shade, were entirely different somehow. There was a flicker of something bright and golden in Stella’s huge, pale irises, something with wings, like youth. _Or hope_ , Tessa thought, and for a moment her heart felt cleaved by a knife. At least, it did until he said, cuttingly cold, 

“I don’t imagine blonde suits you,” rumbling voice deep enough to make her shiver, and she raised her eyebrow at him for the taunt, questioning. She reckoned Finn had mentioned it to him, or Tommy had simply deduced. She was, after all, quite obviously, _not_ Victoria. Odd that Finn would have thought the detail important enough to discuss. Odder that Tommy would be speaking of it, of all things, now, of all times. He had never been one for small talk. A test, then. That much remained the same as ever. 

“And why not?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even under his examination, under his jab, under his thumb. He paused, like he had all the time in the world, instead of five minutes. Instead of answering, he ticked his head and walked past her to the bar cart, shedding his suit jacket as he did so, crisp shirt whiter than the snow she was so desperately vying for, charcoal waistcoat with a black silk back. Somehow at once opulent and refined. 

“Well, nobility seems to suit you,” she told him, nodding at the portrait, but he did not so much as hum in response. He was also wearing a gun in its sleek leather holster. She had the rather disturbing inner contemplation on who would be faster on the draw. She really was a very good shot, but it was less about that than it was about reading people, and as far as that went, she would rather be up against anyone else than Tommy Shelby. Tessa took another drag and sat down on the sofa, commanding her hands to stop acting as if they were attempting to perform a ballet sequence during an earthquake. Tommy returned after a faint clinking of glass, and handed her a measure of clear liquid, which she was dreadfully grateful for. She wondered who in the house drank vodka, and thought she could probably guess, although she would have pegged May for gin. Respectable, like Ada. Perhaps she had another side to her, and thats what drew Tommy to her. Or perhaps she didn’t, and that was what he liked. A refuge. Tessa had tried that, once, a lifetime ago. It had ended with her shooting the man in the eye, but she supposed that was still kinder than what she had done to Tommy. Jack’s anger at her had gotten Ada killed. She didn’t want to think about what Tommy’s could do. He sat down in the chair May had been occupying, crossing his legs, his colors all black and blue like a bruise. 

“Explain,” he said, and she did. 

  
  
...  
  
  


Tessa was wringing her fingers unconsciously, twisting them where her elbows rested on her knees, pale arms hidden by black lace, and she took the glass from him and tossed back half of its contents with a quick toss and a wince, dark eyes against copper hair against cream skin. She had none of the pink flush that so often colored the cheeks of those with her complexion, her skin even as alabaster. If he had been capable of overcoming the shock of _seeing her,_ he would possibly have been able to narrow down exactly what he thought about it, but he couldn’t seem to, tracing the line of her dainty nose and cupid’s bow like a map with an answer at the end of it. He sat across from her, wondering if she was about to disappear before his eyes, worried he was still asleep, worried that at any moment, crimson would blossom across her like a flower. She cleared her throat, and spoke, and he stared at the vertical scars down her neck, the end of the maze. 

“While I was in hospital after the… party, Edward Rockefeller came to me with a proposition,” she said, and her foot began to tap. No cocaine, then. He had met a few boys like her in the war, ones who couldn’t keep still no matter how they tried. It was worse when she was nervous. He assumed that was what the cocaine was for. So: nervous, but clean, although she had caught his attempt to gauge whether or not she was carrying cigarettes, and she had accepted the vodka quite easily. The vodka she had drank from when she had been by his side, that he had left unmoved and untouched. She continued, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t gotten her voice quite right in his head, he never seemed to, it was never the same. A pale reflection. She was there, across from him, breathing, flesh and bone, her plush red lips pressed together slightly. She took a preparatory breath. “He gave me a trade; I accept his marriage proposal, in exchange for protection of the Peaky Blinders.” 

There was a heavy silence, like the air had thickened.

Tessa commanded herself to breathe, and Tommy was quiet, his expression mildly contemplative. 

“He’s the one called the Yard,” Tommy said, and Tessa nodded, a waving strand of red falling from her shoulder with the motion. She took another sip of her drink, pursing her lips, and he stared at the slight shine the alcohol left on them and was relatively sure even his own subconscious couldn’t recall a detail with that much clarity. 

“Edward runs most of the country, now. His father is getting old, his brother is- was-,” she corrected, with a pained smirk, “a lunatic. The _Perish_ was Richard’s idea, the only one Edward ever liked. Rockefeller funds support around eighty percent of the political movement overseas.” 

“I know,” Tommy said, letting his next drink of whisky coat his tongue with its warm burn. “I looked into him. Didn’t strike me as your type.” 

He blinked at her, rather like a bird of prey, his next inhale quick and sharp and questioning. 

“No?” Tessa asked, sarcastically, looking around at their lavish surroundings, watching for a reaction to her scrutiny, which he did not give. “Looks like home to me.” 

“Take off the fucking wig, Tessa,” Tommy snapped, for the first time, a flicker of fangs behind marble, 

“Stop assuming my motivations, Thomas,” she countered, and he ticked his chin and fluttered his fingers against the side of his glass slightly. 

“How did you disappear?” Tommy asked, and she bit her lip before deciding on the truth. Well, partially. Enough of it. 

“Alfie Solomons,” she told him, and he gave a short, dry scoff. 

“Of fucking course,” Tommy said, immediately, under his breath, shaking his head. “Of _fucking_ course. Never once coveted something without somehow managing to steal it away, Alfie.” 

“You sound almost as if you admire him for it,” Tessa challenged, and Tommy’s immoble expression did not so much as flicker. She could not stop staring, to the extent that someone else might have become bashful and looked away, but Tommy had always been, in many ways, shameless. And that boded poorly for her, because she was trying to look away from the sun and she couldn’t and the sun wasn’t about to blink first. 

“I don’t appreciate being fucking lied to,” he said, softly, and Tessa’s arms felt suddenly cold, a shiver passing through her. “I will deal with Alfie.” And she was very worried that she was fucked, and that she had gotten Alfie fucked too, and that if he didn’t forgive her for this he would never forgive her for- 

“Mr. Solomons is my business partner,” Tessa said, the heat in her tone overcompensating slightly to make up for her numb fingers. “And the key to you taking down the threat of the Perish _and_ the Rockefellers in one go. If you wanted him dead, you should have killed him when he actually betrayed you. Or have you forgotten how to conduct _business,_ Lord Shelby? Long hours in those stuffy offices, I bet.” The taunt landed, and Tommy uncrossed his legs smoothly, leaned forward, and looked at her with such intensity it felt like it was cracking her soul. 

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said, very quietly, but his words felt like they were being etched in her bones, and there was an obvious accusation in his voice, one that she felt like a slap across the face. “Business partner,” Tommy repeated, exhaled shortly, and then, “Well, wasn’t my business, and it wasn’t yours. Rockefeller gave you a position in his company, then, eh?” 

“Lots of ways to buy trust that don’t involve currency,” Tessa replied, taking the last sip of her drink. Tommy followed her lead, swirling the amber whisky in his glass absently. 

“So,” Tommy said, “why _you_?” 

He said it in such a brisk, prompting way that she held back a wince. _Why you,_ like he couldn’t conceive of it, couldn’t understand why someone would want it to be _her,_ specifically, and the worst of it was the real reason. She blinked, because she didn’t want to say, didn’t want to condemn herself, but Tommy scoffed and rolled his nearly iridescent eyes to the heavens and said, 

“To get information on me?” 

And she damned his wits to hell for not giving her even a second to compose herself. She should have prepared a speech, or something, but he would likely have noticed, Christ, she had forgotten how _infuriating_ he was- 

“Edward didn’t want information on you,” she said, quietly, “because he didn’t need it. He has everything, he knows everyone. He wanted me,” she said, with a smirk that twisted on her lips like a snake, “for leverage.” 

An abandoned farmhouse. _You want me to be bait,_ she’s said, another voice, a man’s, spat _I don’t care about leverage over some old fucker-,_

There was another tally under the list of sins in his name. He had gotten her shot, gotten her taken, gotten her nothing but wastefully split blood. There it was, again, the regret. Remorse. He understood the Catholics, the unburdening of confession, but the words would not pass his lips, holy water burnt off by the sting of the whisky and the fact that he couldn’t stop watching the glimmering movement of one perfect, loose spiral curling around by her elbow. _I’m sorry,_ he wanted to say, and he didn’t, and he couldn’t, anyway. Tessa wrapped her lips around the cigarette, executed a flawless french inhale. Tommy wondered if Michael had been the one to teach her, and had the sudden, irrational impulse to assign him to be Curly’s assistant for a week. 

“I didn’t come here for protection from him. I’m not leading anything towards your family that wasn’t already coming. His brother was beating his wife, a woman I’ve known since primary, and he would’ve kept on doing so until she was dead. I asked Edward to intervene, he refused, I stepped in myself. I used your men because Alfie’s were occupied, and Victoria’s name because I met her before we left Chicago. I went to visit Lucy.” 

Her confession was met with uninterpretable silence. He was looking into the empty fireplace, the scar across his cheek capturing her attention in a way nothing had since Stella. 

“Lucy,” he said, after a moment, humming like something had clicked into place. “Lucy was double-crossing Jack Fischer. Pretending to gather information for him, but instead...” 

“It’s the other way around,” Tessa said, she smiled, very slightly, but dropped it like a lost coin because she didn’t want to be acting a fool when she still wasn’t entirely sure whether he was going to shoot her in the head. He was smarter than that, she knew it, she was relying on it now like she had when she had passed him a cap with a razor blade in the brim. His eyes were so light they hardly seemed a color at all. 

“How much do you know?” he asked, and she popped her lips very slightly. 

“Everything I need to, thanks to Alfie.” 

Tommy, to her very great surprise and a jerk in her chest like she had been hit by an anvil, suddenly smiled too. It wasn’t necessarily humorous, mocking and threatening, but even still, the shock of seeing his full lips flash his teeth as he smirked was completely unexpected and nearly winded her. 

“What?” she asked, and he shook his head almost ruefully, his mouth still lilted in facetious amusement. 

“If what you’re saying is true,” he said, “Your husband should’ve used some of his money on some new spectacles. Maybe a monocle, like his brother. Bit blind. Must run in his social circle.” Von Stein’s screams filtered between them over the years, and Tessa sat back on the couch, Ripper’s eyes following her movements from where his chin rested on the plush carpet. 

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat,” Tessa reminded him, and Tommy made a dismissive noise. 

“Would be a fucking laugh though, eh?” he said, eyes squinting slightly, and she might as well have been trying to read Mandarin than his face. 

“And if it isn’t true?” Tessa asked, forcing her voice past her immobile chest. It _was_ , but that hardly mattered. What mattered was whether he believed her. He cocked his head, by about a millimeter, his features still stone, except for his occasional blinks. She felt like she was in a staring contest with a rattlesnake. 

“That’s the fucking thing isn't it?” he said, “If it’s not, then I am.” And he dropped his head with a tired sigh and ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she wasn’t sure she had ever seen from him before. It took her a second to process the implications of his words, _Blind or a threat?_ She wanted to ask, and by the time she had, the door to the room was creaking open, and Polly peeked her head through, addressing Tommy with a cross expression that promised she had not forgotten his curt dismissal. 

“They’re here,” she said, “Meeting’s starting.” 

Tommy stood with a crisp movement, and paced across the room, leaving Tessa on the couch staring down into her empty glass, feeling like she was a champagne bottle that had gotten shaken up, a fizzy pressure in her veins. 

“You can tell my family your story. They’ll want to hear it from you.” He called back to her right before disappearing through the door, and Tessa let out a painfully tight breath, and rose. 

  
  
  
_..._   
  
  


Tommy exited first, his brow slightly furrowed. May revelled in the brief moment before he noticed her waiting before the drawing room doors, before his face shuttered. He looked like he had gotten hit very hard in the head, gotten rung like a bell, he shook it, twice, and muttered a baffled something she didn’t catch. Then he spotted her, and paced towards her with every inch his usual clipped swagger. He did not apologize for his less than courteous treatment, or act like anything had just occurred at all, and she felt like it was quite unfair of him to do so while looking all angles and broad shoulders. He was smoking, the white curls furling over his lips like frozen breath. 

“We’ll talk,” he said, quietly, and May nodded. 

“Yes,” she agreed, empathetically. “We will.” 

Tommy waited several beats before he spoke again, and his words were softer and more questioning than she had been expecting. “That’s a big room in there,” he said, eventually, gesturing slightly at the drawing room. “Lots of seats.” 

May was stunned into silence. However she had expected this conversation to go, this was not it. Polly’s warning rang in her head like a siren. 

“Next time, perhaps,” she said, and Tommy thought for a moment, then nodded. He pressed a kiss to May’s cheek, and Tessa opened the door down the hallway behind him. If she had seen the gesture of affection, she gave no indication, and her heels clicked with a precise staccato as she passed them. She waited until she was already passing them to question, offhandedly, 

“You don’t mind if I bring my dog, do you?” Not pausing for an affirmative before giving a sweet, shrill whistle, and walking into the drawing room, leaving the door open behind her. The Rottweiler bounded suddenly around a corner from the sitting room, chasing her heels as she walked through to the parlour. A chatter of voices from the other side suddenly hushed. 

“You know something?” May asked Tommy, who was staring after the dog with a curious expression, “I’ve had a change of heart,” like someone handed a box labeled “explosives” and thought she ought to shake it to see if anything happened. 

  
  
_..._

Michael was having a very bad day. Tommy had moved him to the London offices, a promotion he appreciated, and a slight separation from his mum that he was rather grateful for as well. But Michael had assumed that with his new position, the bullshit errands Tommy sent him on would cease. Michael had been dramatically incorrect. Someone had to carry out all his cousin’s plots and send out all his threats, after all. It was time-consuming work. And Michael only had to deal with the legitimate aspects of it, which was nearly always accomplishable without the use of force. Arthur didn’t have it so easy. Even now, with his hands clasped together on the banquet table that was so polished it was nearly reflective, Arthur’s knuckles were split from their most recent encounter with a trapped rat, a name from the past. Billy Stevenson, the one who had escaped after the party. And just then, into the room walked another. 

Tessa Reilly remained one of the most beautiful women Michael had ever seen, although he supposed personal taste accounted for a good portion of that. Still, it was hard to imagine the person who wouldn’t turn to look at her as she made her entrance, and she bore the attention with the iron of someone who knew to expect it. Silence fell across the onlookers like a sheet. Polly, who had entered a few moments before, was the only member of the gathering who wasn’t wearing various levels of surprise on their faces, ranging from Charlie’s slight double-take to Arthur’s mouth falling open and his words puttering out mid-sentence. Michael glanced down at the dog by her side, and the door opened again and Tommy walked through, just as Arthur said, in a voice like he had recently gotten hit in the throat-, 

“‘Oly shit, is that the same fuckin’ dog…,” he trailed off, eyes widening, the Rotweiller sat beside Tessa as she paused, licking its chops. 

“His name is Ripper,” Tessa said, scratching behind his ear with her crimson nails, and then added, “He’s really quite sweet. Books and covers, Arthur, don’t be a hypocrite.” 

Arthur took a moment to puzzle out her words, and then his face split into a wide, disbelieving grin. 

“Tessa Reilly,” he said, shaking his head, John was smirking behind his toothpick and nodding contentedly to oppose his brother’s movements, and when Tessa met Michael’s eyes, her lips pulled into a smile too and he had to stand hastily to receive her rushed embrace. Her thick hair pressed against his face for a moment, smelling of nectar and wealth. Michael had always rather assumed that was part of her appeal for Tommy. She smelled of what he imagined money would, gold, a glittering, holy dollar to chase. The problem was, Michael quite liked May, and until Tessa pulled back, he hadn’t even noticed she had entered the room behind his cousin. She was certainly quite Tessa’s opposite. Michael was tempted to catch Tommy’s eye, but he could already feel the weight of his stare as he watched them, and didn’t want to risk it. 

“Miss Reilly,” Michael muttered, with a slight grin, as she brushed her knuckles across his cheek, a soft look on her face, and Tommy cleared his throat. 

“Not anymore,” he said, everyone turned from Tessa to him like an audience watching a play. Tommy waved a hand at Tessa, rings glinting. “Mrs. Rockefeller has something she would like to say.” 

Several people, including Tessa herself, started a bit at the name. Arthur’s expression was puzzled, John muttered a low, “What?” and stared at her with a new expression, more taken aback than he had been when she entered the room. She seemed suddenly affected by the amount of attention focused on her, and shot Tommy a dirty look that darkened her features. Tommy blinked at her expectantly, silent, arms crossed, holster tight over his shoulders. The room waited, with a general air of uncertainty, faces turned towards Tessa’s pale one, alabaster skin offset by the scarlet drench of her hair and lips. 

“I didn’t betray you,” Tessa said, meeting their eyes in turn. “I married Rockefeller in exchange for protection of your city. Of your family. I ran because his brother was going to kill his wife, and I killed him instead.” She did not beg or plead for their understanding, their forgiveness, and it was that which convinced Michael it was the truth. That, and it sounded exactly like something Tessa would do. 

“You _killed_ him?” A new voice spoke. Michael had forgotten about Linda’s presence, which was something he generally attempted to manage, to the very best of his ability, to avoid the toothache-inducing clench his jaw performed whenever she spoke during family meetings. Tommy had only been allowing her to attend recently, after the wedding, after she was irremovable. Sometimes, Michael saw the look on Tommy’s face when she questioned him and wondered if he had already begun regretting his decision. Lizzie was a good tempering force to Linda’s righteousness, so she had received a grudging invitation as well. Privately, Michael thought Tommy was attempting to compensate for the ghosts of the two women, barring Michael’s mum, who he might actually want there. He was never going to _say_ so, of course, not to Tommy. Tessa, however, might have found it amusing. She had an odd sort of humor, which Michael had frequently found himself missing, none of which was currently visible on her bloodless face. 

"I _encouraged_ him to kill himself, really,” Tessa corrected, observing Linda’s spot by Arthur’s right side, the wedding bands on their fingers. “I _killed_ his protection.” 

“Att’sa girl, Tess,” Arthur said, gruffly, dipping his head in respect, which earned him an accusatory glare from his wife. Lizzie jerked her dark head down to hide her fleeting smirk, May observed the interaction with an impassive expression. 

“ _You?”_ Linda repeated, and Michael couldn’t blame her, entirely. Tessa’s angelic features, slight size, and gender all made her an unlikely suspect, but those were the ones you had to look out for the most. His family had taught him that much. 

“Would you care for a demonstration?” Tessa asked, so deadpan it became more of a verbal lashing than a rhetorical question, and Linda recoiled in affront with such an offended expression that Lizzie gave a derisive snort that she did not manage to cover as well as her smile. Tommy threw Tessa one of his silencing glances. She fluttered her lashes irritatedly, but seemed to reel herself in. 

“Edward Rockefeller will be coming for you,” Polly said, gravely, and Tessa looked at her with something close to guilt splashed across her eyes like blood. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“And us, by association,” Polly added, but again, Tommy said, 

“No,” in a firm, controlled voice, and heads turned again like a tennis match. “Not by association,” he continued, and then he looked at Tessa, and Michael saw May’s lips tighten and Lizzie glance down at her hands, and all it took was eye contact. Michael had the darkly amusing thought that if Tommy had the impulse to ensure his own demise, all he would have to do at that moment was cross the room and kiss her, and he would get torn to shreds. Maybe not. Tommy got away with more bullshit than anyone Michael had ever known. He admitted the flash of jealousy to himself, and observed his cousin, trying to glean an inkling of his thoughts. Tommy’s hands were clasped behind his back unconcernedly as he spoke, belying nothing. “Edward Rockefeller plans to bring us down. They were using the opening of the Motor company to scope us out, the association with the Perish because they knew of our history. The enemy of my enemy. Isn’t that right, Tessa?” he asked, and it occurred to Michael that this was the first instance in three years when he head heard Tommy speak her name. Tessa nodded, still looking rather faint. 

“So _that’s_ why he married you,” May said, softly, speaking for the first time since she had entered the room, connecting the dots, her posh southern accent smooth and flowing. “To get information.” 

“Yes, well,” Tessa said, and Michael met John’s eyes in mutual agreement that there were several other, significantly more tangible reasons Edward Rockefeller might’ve wanted to marry her, “It was rather the other way around. A friend of mine once did much the same, I stole the strategy from her. It was the only way to maintain leverage.” Her stare flickered to Tommy, then to the ground. “I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you. Everything I did, I did to protect you.” There was a pressing silence following her words, tense and loaded like a gun. Tommy spread his hands in a there-you-have-it way. 

“All those in favor of reinstating Tessa Rockefeller to her former position within the company as non-Executive Director, raise your hands.” His words led to a general rustle of shock. Linda scoffed, giving Tommy a look like she didn’t believe him for a second, but Michael raised his palm instantly and met her challenge with an unflinching expression of his own. His mum’s hand followed, then the brothers, Charlie muttered a noncommittal “Don’t know if I’m even allowed a vote,” but raised his, too. Tommy’s lifted last, his solemn stare fixed on Tessa. 

“Motion carried,” Tommy said, brusquely, “Time to talk about the fucking Irish.” 

  
  



	10. Cocaine Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High as hell, feeling fine, nothing bad but nothing kind  
> Not a word from me, at least nothing you would mind  
> In my head, in my head I get lonely sometimes  
> Feeling fine, coming down, never back cause we're never out  
> You'll never call the cops again, I'll never call her mine  
> In my head, in my head, I get lonely sometimes
> 
> When you find an old picture of us, and you clear away the dust  
> I hope you miss me sometimes  
> When you see a frame that reminds you of me, would you remember the times  
> Oh the times that we believed
> 
> In a Cocaine Jesus in a black four-seater  
> Got a man, don't need him, but you wait  
> Call me when you want, or just call me when you need it  
> If you only ever need it for the day
> 
> I have no more than all you left of me  
> I have no more than all you leave

_WARWICKSHIRE, 1927_

“Let’s take a walk,” Tommy suggested, as if it was a recommendation and not a command. May complied, rising and turning, and he pointed a warning finger at Tessa. “You stay here. We’re not done,” he told her, and Tessa made an imperious face but remained at the long banquet table, slowly and deliberately removing a cigarette case from the pocket of her black suede jacket. Tommy rolled his eyes and gave a short scoff, but the usual austerity in his face was absent and May thought he was being incredibly fucking dim, and was also thrown like the back of a horse. The only people she had ever seen him be anything more than moderately polite to was his family, and even they rarely escaped his absolute impassivity. She followed his square-shouldered silhouette through the back doors to the garden, where the last, trailing fingers of light in the sky cast a low glow against the horizon. Tommy’s face was in shadow until the bright flicker of his lighter danced briefly, reflected in his bright eyes. May reached out for a drag, and he passed it to her smoothly. 

“Why do you want her back in the company?” May asked, as a way to begin. Tommy blinked and stared out at the stars popping through the darkness. 

“Enemies close,” he said. “She can topple Rockefeller, or she can come for us. It’s the smart play.” 

“You’re that afraid of her?” May asked, and Tommy smirked, faintly, like he found the idea of experiencing fear amusing and shook his head slightly, plush lips balancing the cigarette, the smoke harsh and rough in the air, like Birmingham, like the burr of his deep voice. 

“Just looking at the facts, May,” he told her. 

“And what might those be?” 

“Put it this way,” Tommy said, flicking ash onto the gravel walk of the garden. “Everyone she’s ever wanted dead is already six feet under, or quickly on their way into the fucking dirt.” 

May blinked, pursed her lips. The twilight was losing its grip on the day’s heat, and a slight breeze stirred goosebumps over her upper arms. Tommy would have offered her his jacket, had he been wearing one either. Knowing that made her feel like a whirlpool, thoughts and feelings and deliberations spinning around and around. Tommy took another biting drag of his cigarette, sucking the smoke through his teeth. The glowing tip swished in his fingers as he gestured with his hands. 

“She has inside information on two dominating companies,” he said, slowly. “She also has an attack dog, a bodyguard, and more money than she would need to kill a hundred men. She has the right name, two of them, connections on either side of the law, in trade, in business. She would be... difficult.” 

“You find her difficult?” May asked, smartly, and to her very great surprise, he gave an answer, with a languid blink like a big cat, his long black eyelashes sweeping across blue eyes like wings across the sky. 

“Sometimes,” he said, casually, and May’s tongue was tied in knots. He continued. “She relies on others underestimating her, and I’ll not be making that same mistake.” 

“Won’t you?” May asked, a bit snappishly. Tommy raised his eyebrows, hollow cheeks carved like the stairs to heaven. She tugged her cashmere tighter around her shoulders. “Has it occurred to you that a woman who disappeared with no warning for three years to marry your rival might _not_ have your best interests at heart?” 

Tommy looked spectacularly impassive, expression even as the surface of a knife. “Nope,” he said, flatly, popping his lips. 

“Would you care to explain why?” May asked, suppressing the urge to put a hand on her hip. His face was drawn, like he was seventeen kilometers past the current conversation. 

“Haven’t had a man get so much as a knock in the bollocks from the Perish. In three years,” he explained, made an expression that suggested he found her judgement incredibly irritating and took another deep drag like the smoke was crisp forest air. “She isn’t lying. Rockefeller has been paying them off to retain his hold on her until he needs her to make his move.” 

“Fine,” May replied, evenly. “If you say so. What about the part where she admitted to killing people?” 

“What about it?” Tommy asked, shortly, with a breath of shifting, fluttering grey, irritated or perhaps not at all, perhaps nothing at all. 

“Do you not… _mind?”_ May asked, and Tommy gave a noncommittal tick of his head, and May _tsked._ “What if it was me, popping down to the shops to shoot a man in the head? You wouldn’t take issue with that?” 

Tommy observed her, keenly, like he could see right through her, like her atoms were being pulled apart so that he could have an unobstructed view of the dark sky behind her eyes. It felt unfair that it would come so easily to him, when she was always being left to decipher his inner thoughts like she was trying to read the pages of his mind. A bird called faintly from a tree above them, soft and sorrowful. 

“You’re not her,” he said, and she wasn’t sure at all how he meant it. 

“Will that be a problem?” she managed to ask, through tingling lips. Her hands were cold. Tommy looked at her for a moment, then lifted her chin with his fingers. She froze, the breeze blowing through her hair like fingers. 

“Not for me,” he said, simply, and kissed her softly, the press of his lips warm against her chill. 

  
  
  
  


Tessa watched them from the window. She fucking _shouldn’t_ have, she was a grown woman who ought to have been above eavesdropping. But she was counting down the list of possible crimes, apparently, so she supposed she might as well cross spying off the list. It was possible to discern their voices, even. She wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or not. Hearing Tommy speak about her in any capacity was an experience that verged past strange and simply felt bizarre, and when coupled with his tone, it left her head fuzzy. He trusted May, that much was obvious. It was also quite obvious that he harbored no such faith in her, but she supposed that much, at least, was warranted. For Tommy, anyway. May’s suspicions seemed personal. It was just… odd, to hear him speaking like that with someone. Someone that wasn’t her. _About_ her. _You find her difficult?_ Like he wasn’t the single most infuriating person to have ever walked the earth. And then he kissed her, and Tessa felt the very distinctive feeling that the bottom of her stomach had dropped suddenly as if she had missed a step going down the stairs, something sickening and wriggling in her guts. Footsteps clicked behind her, a distinctly smooth stride. Polly's scent arrived before she did, frankincense and dark florals, a glamorous smell that reminded Tessa slightly of her mother.

“So,” Polly said, lackadaisically, leaning a slim shoulder on the doorway before the window Tessa was peering through. She did not comment on Tessa’s reconnaissance. “What did you name her?” 

“What?” Tessa’s insides were still doing some sort of nauseating dance. She did not turn. Tommy and May were still speaking, but their words were lost to her unless she strained her ears for them. He was tipping May’s chin up as he spoke, and Tessa couldn’t decide if she wanted to break something or vomit or attempt both simultaneously. 

“The baby,” Polly said, and Tessa squeezed her eyes closed. “I’ve known since you left,” Polly said, evenly, “knew nothing short of armageddon would get you away from his side.” 

Tessa wanted to say that Stella was hardly a forbringer of the apocalypse, but found herself unable to convince even the privacy of her own opinion that that was entirely true. Tommy’s reaction to the news would no doubt be nothing short of catastrophic, but that was a problem she was staunchly ignoring for the moment, for sanity's sake. She needed to be impervious. She needed to be strong. She needed to keep her shit together if she wanted to get him on her side. If she thought about the truth, the past, anything other than her current situation, she would fall apart. 

“I haven’t the faintest what you’re talking about,” she said, and somehow felt Polly’s shrug as if through the shifting air. May was wearing a reluctant smile. She was older than Tessa, quiter, more level. Perhaps Tommy had grown tired of a life defusing bombs. Tessa felt suddenly angry with herself, for attracting trouble like a moth to a light, for digging her own grave with a shovel made from the steel of desperation. 

“You know I won’t tell him,” Polly said, from behind Tessa’s shoulder, “we’re old hats at keeping each other’s secrets. Women have to look out for each other, after all.” 

“Tell _her_ that,” Tessa mumbled somewhat insolently, tossing May a glare through the window pane. Polly chuckled. Tessa turned, wanting snow like oxygen. It hadn’t been this bad since the first couple of weeks. She also wanted to leave, to run, to drink enough liquor that she could get the image of them standing in the garden out of her head, give her revolting insides something else to be sick with. 

“Leave it to Tommy to pick a fucking Toft,” Polly said, lighting one of her dark cloves with fingers shimmering with jewels. Tessa glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. She was one herself, as much as May, but something in Polly’s tone made it clear the older woman did not count Tessa among their ranks. There were moments when Tessa _hated_ herself for leaving. Hated it like stepping straight through a nail, like the stroke of a cleaver to the guts. Polly’s face was mesmerizing in a way similar to Tommy’s, and Tessa realized with an odd jolt that Stella had a grandmother. That she was standing right there, in front of her. Tessa had never thought about it before. “Did you come back for him?” 

The question stung her like a wasp. “He won’t want me once I tell him the truth,” she said, and Polly hummed thoughtfully, neither a denial nor admittance, and Tessa wanted to ask, wanted to know. And didn’t want to know. She had learnt long ago not to raise a Shelby a question unless you were certain you were ready for the answer you may receive. May chuckled past the window, swatting gently at Tommy’s arm, there was a mischievous sort of tilt to his lips. Tessa had to force a swallow past a closed throat and avert her eyes before she could manage to say, “It looks like she makes him happy.” 

“Yes,” Polly admitted, cocking her head at the unknowing couple. Now that she had torn her eyes away, Tessa found it impossible to look back again. “I think she does. But I think the real question is, is being happy what he really wants?” 

There was a heavy beat between them. Tessa pressed her lips together. 

“No,” she said, “he wants to be free.” 

“He wants to be free,” Polly repeated, with a slight nod, her expression faraway, the smoke trailing, forgotten, from the end of her cigarette. “And she will never understand that.” Tessa sifted a sigh through ribs that felt splintered. 

“Her name is Ada,” she said, “Ada Stella.” And Polly blinked briskly once, then again and again, and Tessa realized there was a shine to her raven eyes like a pebble snatched from the bottom of a riverbed. Then she straightened suddenly, pulling herself up as if by invisible strings, and brushed the backs of her fingers against Tessa’s cheeks. 

“Welcome home, Lolo,” she said, in a quiet murmur, and Tessa gave a wavering smile. 

  
  
  
  


“It’s rude to listen in on people’s conversations,” Tommy said, from behind them, Tessa jumped and spun on her heels. Polly, who had grown used to his ability to creep up silently decades ago, shot him an insolent look. 

“Sometimes, Thomas, _other_ people have conversations of their own accord, without your presence being necessary,” Polly replied, with a dry note of sarcasm, and Tommy realized with a private wince that the women in the house were quickly beginning to outnumber the men. He ought to hire some new gardeners or something to keep the balance. 

“Really?” He countered, tauntingly monotone, his aunt’s cutting remarks as lost on him as his stealth was on her. “What do they say?” 

“That you’re only letting me back into the company because you don’t trust me.” Tessa spoke over Polly’s rolled eyes, and Tommy was forced to look at her, which he had been rather actively attempting not to do. His mind stuttered to the same predictable halt it had been so unhelpfully determined to since he had seen her in his parlour. 

“ _Did_ just catch you spying on me, love,” he pointed out, waiting for her to blink, wondering if she would. She didn’t. She tilted her head rather majestically, like a queen whose slender neck was tipping from the weight of her crown. There had always been something inherently royal about her, a confidence he admired. Polly passed him an impressively maternal face to scold him over the use of the pet name, but it hadn’t been any fun without resulting in Tessa’s unease and instead left a bitter, burning taste in his mouth, like soot. The redhead smirked slightly, mocking, plush lips painted scarlet, and he watched them obviously until the smile fell. Polly cleared her throat. 

“Wait until your woman is in her car, at _least,_ Thomas,” she said in a clipped, lowered tone to Tommy as she brushed past him. He blinked and flexed his jaw, Tessa’s tilted head righted itself, the dripping auburn waves shimmering, thick like copper velvet. 

“You’re right. I don’t trust you,” he agreed, finally, flatly, several seconds after Polly’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall. May had likely walked around the outside of the house to the front. It was the sort of thing she thought of, ever considerate, ever polite. 

“Okay,” Tessa said, sounding like she was fighting not to let any cynicism creep into her tone, not to let the sentence rise into a question. Tommy nodded. 

“Okay.” There was another, oppressive silence. Tessa raised her eyebrow slightly, prompting, and he cleared his throat. “Where are you staying?” He kept his words as precise as possible, left no room for interpretation, for emotion. No room and no time and his heart was thudding in his ears. 

“I’ve a hotel somewhere,” Tessa replied, waving a delicate hand idly, long fingers pale as lace, a huge diamond ring glittering on the fourth. Edward Rockefeller. Tommy should’ve blown him up with the rest of his band of fascists. She was _married_ to him. A legally binding contract, a partnership, a union. She said she hadn’t betrayed them. Tommy rather disagreed. “Alfie put me up.” 

“Best mates these days, the two of you, eh?” Tommy asked, his smoke was on its final drags, and he considered using it to light another one, and when was the last time he had given a _shit_ about anyone else’s personal life? Why was he asking about hers, the person who was least likely to answer him? She didn’t. She gave a humorless grin. 

“It’s better to have friends than enemies,” she said, evasive, patronizing. Her almond eyes glittered in the darkness, like the stones sparkling on her fingers and wrists. The cuts simple, the prices anything but. “Maybe you’ll learn that someday.” 

“Doesn’t seem very likely,” he told her, ignoring the condescention in her voice, ignoring how strange it was to speak to someone outside his family who was brave or stupid enough to directly question him. He shouldn’t have found it _strange,_ should have wrapped a fist around her throat and reminded her she was skating on thin ice with sharp blades, but he didn’t even consider it. Hadn’t, really, even at all, no matter what justifications he had given May, or impressions he had given Tessa herself. The years didn’t matter. He would have let her put a bullet between his eyes without a second thought, without a moment of deliberation. He knew it, because of how heavily his sins outweighed hers, whatever they may have been, like a feather to a lead gun. He didn’t care about either Rockefeller. The reason he didn’t trust her had nothing to do with that, he could see the truth on her face, in her eyes. If he hadn’t known her, hadn’t known her tics, he would have thought she was completely calm, but he did. Her fingers flickered against her side like trapped hummingbird wings. He didn’t trust her because she had finally realized she was a hurricane, and he didn’t want her to discover she still had the power to rip him apart. 

“Are you… glad to see me?” she asked, and he needed some whisky, and her stormy green eyes dropped to the floor and she yanked them back up to meet his gaze. 

“No,” he said, quickly, shaking his head. “No.” Instead of looking insulted, she seemed merely resigned. Perhaps she had caught the dark twist of amusement in his tone. 

“No?” she asked, he was waiting, waiting, waiting, for her skin to split and spill red at the seams. It didn’t, the curl of her blood lips the only wound. He let out a tight breath. 

“No.” he repeated, slowly and empathetically, holding her eyes with his own. Any other woman would have been abashed. Would have recoiled. She grinned against the metaphorical knife at her throat, just like she always had. 

"Why not?" she asked, his head was still shaking slowly. 

"You're going to _fuck_ up me life, that's why not," he told her, even though he shouldn't have, and she smiled. He felt like hitting his head against the wall, and he felt like floating. "Do me a favor, and don't." He was watching her mouth again, the quirk of her lips was making it very difficult not to. 

“So when do I start, boss?” she asked, in a playful tone he shouldn't have allowed, shouldn't have but did, like he always did with her, and he snorted an unintentional chuckle before he could take another drag of his cigarette to prevent it. 

“Tomorrow,” he said, coughing to hide his smile. “Company office, bright and early.” The moon had begun to ride past the heavy damask curtains. Tessa’s cheek was lit by it, smooth like the reflection of glassy water. He nodded again, taking her silence as acceptance. “Good,” he said, and turned, and heard her let out a small breath. He looked back over his shoulder, unable to stop himself, caught her slightly bowed head, opened his mouth to speak again before he had so much as an inkling of what it was he was going to say. It ended up just being her name. 

“Tessa,” he said, and her gaze lifted and she looked tired but unflinching, steel that bent but never broke. He paused, grappling with a million possible words, wondering how it was that none of them seemed to fit. “If you’re going to fuckin’ murder anyone, you know, in the meantime… give me a bloody call first, yeah?” 

She smiled again, and he wondered at it, small and somewhat hidden though it was. People did not often smile at him, and it never felt like that, rough and blurring, sandpaper and sunshine. 

“Yeah,” she said, and he needed to leave but his legs were refusing to unroot themselves from the thick rug, and they were locked like keys, her colorless moonlight skin and flaming hair just like a dream, just like a nightmare. She spoke again, her lips barely moving, her words nearly silent. 

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” she told him, softly, and that was the one thing he couldn’t hear, the one thing he couldn't say, he had to command his quicksand feet to move, to turn, but he let his last stare burn her and pretended it wasn’t like having a heart made of dry ice, like it wasn’t smoking and burning in the exposure to her oxygen. 

“Don’t be late,” he told her, and he left. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lovelies, just wanted to remind you all that I love you and appreciate you so much <3 from the bottom of my heart, thank you for your support. you can never know how much it means to me. hugs and kisses to you precious people, hope you're all well!! :,)


	11. Almost (Sweet Music)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I came in from the outside, burned out from a joy ride  
> She likes to roll here in my ashes anyway
> 
> I'm almost me again, she's almost you
> 
> I wouldn't know where to start  
> Sweet music playing in the dark  
> Be still, my foolish heart  
> Don't ruin this on me

_BIRMINGHAM, 1927_

Tessa arrived at the hotel in a state Benson’s mother would have wept at the sight of, loose waves tousled as if by the fingers of the wind, dark makeup smudged around her wide fox eyes. He had been out as well, reorienting himself with the city, met up with a few mates, got caught up on current events, none of which had sounded particularly uplifting, and Tessa’s pale fingers wrapped around the neck of a glass bottle did nothing to improve his projections. 

“I’m _fine,”_ she snapped, before he had the time to so much as open his mouth, and then, somewhat steadier, like she was trying to convince herself, free hand propped against the wall for balance, “I’m fine.” 

“Things went well, I take it?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the same wall. The room was so new he could still smell the paint. Stella was long fast asleep, he had checked the moment he returned. Emmaline was good with children. Tessa handed him her half-empty bottle with a slight sloshing sound, and Benson chided himself for not considering it half full instead. 

“ _No,”_ she said, mockingly, a frown twisting her lips. “ _No,_ things did not _go well_ . I’m drinking fucking _tequila,_ Ben.” 

“I like tequila,” he said, with a shrug, taking a sip. He didn’t really, but it was worth it to see the incredulous expression on her face, mouth slightly open, aghast. Her red lipstick was gone, leaving a pink flush behind that matched the unusual amount of color on her high cheeks. 

“No one _likes_ tequila. People only drink it because it guarantees your physical anguish will be worse than your mental pain. Like a bloody liquid lobotomy. _How_ are you _managing_ that?!” she demanded, as he took another pull, breathing through his nose to avoid the acidic, fiery burn behind his eyes and in his chest. 

“I’m brimming with testosterone,” Benson deadpanned, with a sharp exhale and he returned her bottle, and her face cracked into a smile that skittered off like a frightened animal, and her eyes fell closed. “Alright, come on,” he said, “what happened? It can’t have been _that_ horrible. You’re still breathing and all.” 

“I appreciate the tone of concern,” she retorted, but then her face screwed up like she had taken another drink and she slid down with her back against the wall, still squeezing her eyes shut. She said something that was muffled past the hand covering her face, and it took him a moment to work out what it had been. 

“You didn’t _tell_ him?” Benson asked, and it was his turn to stare down at her in shock, but she was still pressing her fingers against her pale skin. The top of her ginger head shook. 

“Christ, Tess-,” 

“I didn’t get to speak to him privately,” she said, with a dismissive, brisk wave of her hand. She reached back up for the bottle, which he held captive over her. 

“Okay,” Benson said, “so if you haven’t told him, then why are you-,” 

“Hypothetically,” Tessa cut in, making a surprisingly quick swipe at the tequila that he hadn’t expected, her white teeth set in a wince as she tipped her head and swallowed another mouthful, “if you had to pick between someone who was very beautiful and very rich and very _mild mannered,_ and someone who lied to you about losing your child, married your enemy and fucked off for three years, who would you choose?” 

“Whoever had the fitter brother,” Benson replied, immediately, “or father, maybe, depending on how well he’d aged.” Tessa’s laugh was louder than it would have been if she was sober, but she quieted quickly, hand to her mouth. Benson slid down the wall beside her, legs reaching out significantly past hers. “So he’s got someone?” It was just a question, but Tessa groaned and put her head between her propped knees like he had pummeled her with a fist. She didn’t respond. Benson licked his lips, said, “Forgive me for being blunt, but Tess, it’s Tommy Shelby, what did you really expe-,” his speech cut off suddenly as a record skipping, and Tessa looked in response to the unexpected halt, blinking like her eyes were slightly blurry. Benson lifted a thick red wave of hair from her neck. “ _What_ the sweet, everloving fuck is _that_.” 

“Ah,’ Tessa said, a bit loosely, holding up a finger like she was remembering. “Rose.” The mark was a dark purple on her porcelain skin, just under her jaw. 

“Tell me that’s not the name of a prostitute.” 

“She called herself a _cyprian_ ,” Tessa said, frowning slightly. “Which I _think_ translates to prostitute, yes. Just more expensive.” She shrugged her shoulder against his. “I wanted to see if it would make him angry.” 

“Of course you did,” Benson muttered, wondering when he had developed paternal impulses towards not one but two females who were completely unrelated to him, wondering if he should ask if she remembered her age, but that’s what you get for drinking tequila. He supposed he should just be grateful she hadn’t left a body anywhere, hadn’t shown up at Mr. Shelby’s new sweetheart’s house with a gun. Although, knowing Thomas, the results of one lovebite could still be just as deadly. Benson wanted to convince himself that the man’s possessivity over her might have faded over the years, but he doubted it, somehow. Her head was leaned back against the wall. “Have I recently recounted for you the concept of not poking sleeping dragons with sticks?”

“Probably?” she said, a question as an answer. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off some of the pressure. It was worse than herding chickens, most days, between the two of them. He would arrive home, wherever home was, Stella would be impressionist painting the walls of their hotel with her chubby little fingers, Tessa would giggle and join in, smearing Benson’s cheek with it. He shouldn’t have been, but he was grateful that for now, at least, he got to keep them by his side, before Thomas discovered the truth and swept them away to his cold palace to reign over the ordinary people, the ones with ordinary morals and ordinary lives. Benson didn’t consider himself _ordinary,_ as his occupation alone removed that description as a possibility and his sexual preferences did little to help, but he hardly considered himself a particularly engaging person. He was brightened by them, by their magic, and loath to part with it. Especially to a man who already had so much of his own. As if on cue, Tessa tapped her heels together with two faint clicks that she echoed with her tongue, fidgeting like mad, like she wanted to crawl out of her skin and out the window, and asked, “Do you want to smoke some grass and jump into the fountain out front with me?” 

“Of course I do,” Benson replied, after a beat, standing and offering her his hand, because there was no use pretending, and her smile was wide and cracked like glass. 

  
  
  
  
_TWO HOURS EARLIER_

“You’re here to forget about someone,” Rose told her, and Tessa raised her eyebrows, took a drink. It wasn’t exactly a remarkable deduction, given where “here” was. The room was lavishly decorated, tapestries draping from the walls and candles shimmering in holders. 

“I imagine most everyone who comes to you is,” she replied, and the gin sizzled down her throat like coals, clinical and crisp. She was rather curious as to why a brothel would keep gin stocked in the room instead of whisky, but she had enough to ponder without such an engaging inquiry taking up space in her drawn thoughts. More than enough. More than she knew how to begin with. She felt thin and hazy and insubstantial, and she couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the way his eyes burned behind hers when she closed them, and she tried not to blink to avoid seeing flashes of them in the spaces in between. 

“You’d be surprised, then,” Rose said, swinging a lithe, tanned leg off the bed where she was lying, silk night robe slipping down her shoulders. She had heavy black hair and olive skin, and even if Tessa had been thick enough to believe that Rose was her real name, she would have thought it a poor fit for her. Tessa wondered vaguely where in Birmingham she had found enough sun to achieve her golden glow. “Lots of people come here not to forget about someone else, but to think about themselves instead.” 

“Lots of _men_ , you mean,” Tessa said, and Rose smiled. 

“Yes,” she said, a wine glass poised in her hand as she propped herself on her elbow, holding a few inches of deep ruby red. She looked every inch as elegant as May, and Tessa took another searing gulp of her own cup to stop the train of her thoughts, but her attempt to distract herself was thwarted when, 

“So. Tell me about the person you are trying to forget, then,” Rose said, and Tessa noticed that her toes were painted a cheerful orange, her accent sliding over the English like a snake. The four-poster bed was huge and decadent, royal purple curtains drawn back like a stage. In a way, she supposed it was. 

“Talking about forgetting him is rather counter-productive,” Tessa responded reflexively, before she remembered that things were different now, things had changed. She had just seen him, she had just been standing in his house. She couldn’t pretend to have forgotten him if she still wanted to, and she had never really wanted to. So if it wouldn’t even ruin her pretending, talking would do nothing to change the truth. Of course she was there to forget him. She was always attempting to forget him, it just never seemed to work. 

“ _Him?”_ Rose asked, with a musical note of surprise. “Now I am curious.” 

Tessa bit down on the twist of her lips. She didn’t respond. 

“You don’t want to talk, then,” Rose said, softly, her voice soft like a purr. “We could find other things to do.” She spread her smooth thighs like melted caramel, tilted her head and phrased a prompt with her eyebrow. Tessa wondered if it was rehearsed. _That was the real reason women didn’t typically frequent brothels,_ she thought to herself. _We’re just not stupid enough to buy in._ Tessa cocked her head, the gin blurring the scene pleasantly, the echoes of his baritone rolling through her mind like thunder. _You’re going to fuck up me life,_ he had told her, and she had thought, _you have absolutely no idea._ Stella was waiting for her at the hotel. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was the other way around, and Tessa was waiting for the courage to look in the face of her choices. She would do it again, she thought, if it meant keeping her daughter safe. Somehow knowing that seemed like it ought to help. It didn’t. It didn’t, when compared to seeing May’s hand on his arm, like he was hers, when Tessa was reminded of how it had felt to be the one by his side. It was a piercing discomfort, like smiling while chewing glass. 

“I only came for the company,” Tessa said, _and it wasn’t such a bad place, really._ She realized she had said the last bit aloud when Rose ticked her tongue and ran it over her teeth, which were brightened by her complexion. She had shimmering eyes laced with green, and Tessa found herself reconsidering her position on the other woman’s offer, but she knew how it would go. It didn’t matter how beautiful the woman’s eyes were, how different her soft form felt under Tessa’s fingers, the moment she slipped up, the moment, even a second, she became less vigilant, the eyes would turn blue and the hair would be black so she had come to a brothel as a retaliation against him for it, something he wasn’t even aware he was doing to her. Well, she _hoped_ he wasn’t aware he was doing to her. He tended to know all the things she didn’t want him to, and she was standing on the lip of the cliff when it came to Stella, of all the people in all the world, _he_ should be the one she had to lie to- Rose’s voice interrupted her scattered thoughts. 

“Risky company. Pricey company. I am not cheap, no?” she asked. Tessa lifted a shoulder, and then her glass, crossed her legs where she was perched on the edge of the bed. “A woman willing to be with another woman, you wanted. Expensive tastes for this kind of house. Dangerous tastes for this kind of place.” 

The room was heady with incense, the musk lingering on Tessa’s tongue like the bite of her drink. _Dangerous,_ the woman said, and that was all it took, he was back in her mind and her life and she took another sip to ward him off, but it was a fruitless, burning endeavour, as it always had been. That much, at least, remained unchanged. 

“Oh, It’s alright,” Tessa replied, with a small, ironic smile. “I know the owner.” 

“Of this establishment?” Rose asked, dark eyebrows raised, and Tessa huffed an amused breath. 

“Of this _city_ ,” she corrected, and then, “Do you think you could do me a favor?” 

  
  
  
_WARWICKSHIRE_

May’s breaths were soft, quick pants- quiet like she was slipping back into old habits, keeping her voice hushed so that the maids wouldn’t overhear. In this house, such trouble was so unnecessary it was nearly laughable. A few weeks back, Finn had walked right into the room when Tommy had a girl under his desk, and his jaw dropped so hard Tommy was surprised it hadn’t fallen clear to the floor and shattered, before Tommy had thrown a book at his head to get him to leave. May had been waiting in his bed when he had arrived, her car still parked out on the drive. She hadn’t spoken and he hadn’t wanted to, but now he thrust harder, to coax a moan past her locked lips. He found himself thinking about the laudanum, and had to force himself back to focus. She hadn’t even _done_ anything, just shown up on his doorstep, after years, like it was nothing, like no time had passed at all, and the worst part of it was that none had, not really, not for him. Like the day she left, the world had stopped turning, days bleeding and flowing together like blood down her arm, _sometimes the only way to kill a monster is to let it starve-_

 _“Tommy,”_ she was saying, he was crawling out of the ground, like he was the bomb that had been set off instead of the one who blew it, 

“Thomas?” the voice changed. May’s brow was furrowed. He snapped back, the low light of the room and her scent of amber suddenly surrounding him again, and the confusion must have shown in his expression, because she blinked her dark doe eyes and said, “Are you alright?” And he realized he had stopped moving completely, he wasn’t even sure what he had been staring at. He shook his head. She was warm around him, almost hot, he pulled himself back to the present with a conscious effort, pressing his hips down again,

“‘M fine,” he said, and then added, “Sorry,” which felt rather shameful, he wasn’t used to the distraction, wasn’t used to not having control over his thoughts. Certainly wasn’t used to underperforming. But he felt she deserved some sort of apology, after all, it wasn’t May’s fault, none of it was her fault, it was all his, all of it, always, it was his fault Tessa had left in the first place, his fault Ada had- his fault the baby had- 

May’s hand lifted to cup his face and he only realized he had closed his eyes after they opened again. Her palms were so smooth, her skin so flawless, like she didn’t have a single mark, a single scar, he felt suddenly dirty, impure, poisonous, and very nearly pulled out of her, away from her, torn between scrambling backwards and leaning into the pressure of her gentle touch. She gave him a scolding look, like a schoolteacher at a student who hadn’t practiced their letters. 

“Stay still,” she told him, almost a hush against his ear, a murmur fitted to soothe the most skittish colt, she moved against him and the blessed blur took over again, dissipating the images of red, he thought she might have said, “Stay with me,” but he wasn’t sure. 

  
  
  


The water was cold, but not cold enough to cut through her haze, and she was glad for it. She splashed Benson with her foot, and he glared at her, as if he wasn’t already shivering, goosebumps rising on his arms and standing the hairs on end. He was watching her. 

“What,” she asked, curious that an innocent splash would earn her that piercing expression. 

“I’m waiting for you to talk,” he said, like it was obvious. 

“I don’t want to talk,” she muttered, irritated at him for downing her pleasant buzz. More than a buzz. 

“First time for everything,” he quipped, and she tossed him an immature pout. The fountain tinkled like wind chimes, the night air silent and unstirred, the hotel lights glinting on the rippling water. She flicked her foot at him again, but he flinched out of the way of her attack. 

“If _you_ want to talk, go ahead,” she told him, “No one’s stopping you.” 

His lips thinned, but it was accompanied by a slight roll of his warm honey eyes, so she knew he wasn’t actually angry. He was very rarely angry, and it was something she found appealing about him. There were too many men in the world too quick to anger. Tessa thought briefly, guiltily, about Emmy. The door to her room had been locked and closed, but she would never have deigned to join them in such an activity, anyway. Benson sloshed over to her, trousers weighed down by the water, and sat quietly beside her, dripping onto the still-warm stone of the fountain’s edge. Stars winked above them past the half-shroud of clouds, and Tessa stared up at them, watched the way they blinked and swam in her vision, like little, shining, upside-down fish in a black sea. 

“I’m not ready to lose him again,” she admitted, the silence breaking like the water tension as she tipped her toe into it. “Not yet.” 

Benson grunted, softly. “Fine, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he responded, flippantly, and she tried to smile, because he was always there, anyway, walking by her side even while pointing at the warning signs. 

  
  
  
  
  


When Tessa awoke in the morning, there was a small, chubby hand shoving something beige and vague in her face. 

“Mommy, I brought you toast,” Stella said, and Tessa winced despite the quiet volume of the words. She blinked. The object before her was indeed a slice of toast, and she wondered how she could manage to be ravenous and nauseous at the same time. 

“Stel, what time is-,”

“Seven twenty-two,” Benson interjected, from the doorway, and then added, darkly, “AM. In case you were wondering.” There were dark circles under his eyes so purple he looked like royalty. 

“ _Fuck,”_ Tessa hissed, throwing the sheets back and knocking the toast from Stella’s hand, too frantic to apologize for it or for her language. Stella had heard much worse. Her daughter’s aquamarine eyes fluttered a bit at Tessa’s sudden haste, but she only bent over to pick up her toast with a huff and a rather fruitless wiping of crumbs from the floor. Benson grinned down at her, before calling, “I’m taking Miss van Gogh here for the day. Enjoy work. I’m sure it will go wonderfully.” 

“Please stop speaking so loudly,” Tessa replied, pressing a hand to her ringing head. Like it had been hit by a gong. Like she had been obliterated by a train. Gin _and_ tequila? What had she been _thinking?_ She chose the easiest article of clothing she owned, a slip dress whose straps tied at the shoulders. 

“Trying to impress someone, are we?” Benson called, looking entirely too smug for seven in the morning, and her brain spun around in her head when she turned it to glare at him. 

“I will kill you here and now, Eustace,” Tessa threatened, which was diminished slightly by the hop she was doing as she pulled her knickers off. There were perks to being around a man who found her as lust-inducing as a lamp shade. Benson made a very wrinkly face at the use of his first name, and Stella stomped a small foot. Tessa found both the size of her shoes and the action itself rather overwhelmingly endearing, and wondered how it was possible for something so perfect to actually exist, and then wondered if all parents felt that way. And then she was wondering about him again, what he would say, what he would think. 

“ _Don’t_ kill Uncle Benny!” Stella commanded, running back to him, pattering across the floor with unnerving speed, quick as a rabbit. 

“You’re lucky the kid is here,” Tessa said, pointed a warning finger at him, which he raised his hands in mock surrender to. And despite being incredibly ill and even more incredibly unprepared and also likely incredibly late, warmth bloomed in her chest at the sight of Stella’s whole hand wrapped around two of Benson’s fingers. “Where are you taking her today?” 

“Visit a friend,” Benson said, smoothly, and Tessa raised an eyebrow. 

“Bring a gun. Call me if anything happens.” 

“ _A_ gun?” Benson said, with a slight snort, crouching down to lift Stella into his arms with a huff. “I’ve got three in the car alone.” 

“That’s my bodyguard,” Tessa said, with a smile that pulled her aching temples, a good pain. 

  
  
  
_BIRMINGHAM_

The last time she had visited the Shelby Company Limited offices, they had owned the floor. Now, they not only owned the entire building, but the next several blocks as well. Tessa had made calls to the reporters in London whose information she had from her days at the newspaper, asked around about the name Shelby. The responses varied from absolute silence, too a few extremely diverging opinions based almost entirely speculation, to a general air of revelation. And that was London. In Birmingham, the Shelby’s were a spectacularly popular and equally infamous brand of royalty. Home-grown, demonic heroes, the pinnacle and culmination of every working-class daydream. The money tingled down her spine like actual pennies were dropping down it, the very air smelled of coins, of blood. Lizzie sat behind a handsomely carved desk in the reception area, her clothing and demeanour all as elevated as the room itself. 

“Hello, Mrs. Rockefeller,” she said, not snappishly, but cautious, and she would have to be, to deal with Tommy, day in and day out. _Dragons and sticks,_ Benson had said. 

“Hullo,” Tessa replied, her mouth was still very dry and Lizzie was eyeing her dress with a slightly lifted corner of her mouth that was either judgement or amusement, but said nothing aloud other than, 

“So. How’d you and Rose… rub along?” in a teasing tone. Tessa snorted, realized her sinuses were stuffy, and then realized she would have genuinely given a trunk chock full of pounds away if it meant she could have slept it of before she had to walk through the gleaming office doors and face Tommy’s flint, but the clock on the wall was ticking impatiently, so she tucked her hair behind her ear and shrugged, flippantly, unconcernedly, _they don’t know your weaknesses until you reveal them,_ Tommy had once said, 

“My new best mate,” Tessa replied, “thanks for the facilitation.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lizzy muttered, glancing at the closed door. “Here’s just in there, you can go ahead.” 

“Cheers,” Tessa said, her jaw a bit tense, trying to steel herself, and she crossed the room with clicking strides, and opened the door. 

  
  
  
  


“Lizzie, I’ve told you, even just _pretend_ to fucking knock before you-,” Tommy said, without looking up, the tousled top of his dark head bent over the papers strewn over his desk, arms braced on the side as he leaned on them. Then he looked up. 

"Thought I said not to be late,” he said, and she looked like she cared about as much to listen to his chastisement as she did to listen to a street prophet predict the end times. Her eyes were rimmed in red but it only served to make them greener, her lovely face bare, freckles dusting the ivory bridge of her nose. Her dress brushed the tops of her thighs and was slit up the sides, fluttery and thin, she crossed her shapely legs and watched him watch her. 

“Good thing this is hardly a first impression then, isn’t it, Mr. Shelby?” and he didn’t blink because it wasn’t that easy or he would long be dead. Her hair was down, curling around her shoulders, dripping in thick waves to her elbows. Glittering, golden red. 

“And here I thought we were trying to start again,” he said, which was evidently not what she had expected, as she froze halfway to lighting a cigarette from her silver case, sharp nails tapping on the metal with a dull sound. After several moments, she took a breath, and spoke. 

“I’m trying to find my father,” she said, and Tommy thought that he was right about starting again, because they were right back where they had fucking begun. 

  
  



	12. This Is Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're no good, you're no good  
> You could kill me and you should  
> I'm an idiot for thinking  
> This was anything but blood  
> On the wall, on the couch, on the corner of my mouth  
> You must like being the victim, you've done nothing to get out  
> Of this pattern of pain, washed away by the rain  
> You'll forgive me if I promise then do nothing but the same  
> This is life until death, could be my last dying breath  
> But this is love, love, shut up, this is love 
> 
> (Forget everything you used to know  
> I think you better tell your friends to go  
> Stick around cause I'm about to show you  
> The beginning is the end)
> 
> Yeah, I know wrong, I know right  
> But I just love to pick a fight,  
> And I can sleep with one eye open  
> If there's any sleep at night  
> I got my knife, got my gun  
> Let's see how fast you can run  
> You might think that you can hurt me  
> But the damage has been done
> 
> It's pathetic, I know, a jealous fool who won't let go  
> If I was sorry for my actions  
> Would I ever stoop so low?  
> Got no reason to live, and I've got nothing left to give you  
> But my love, love, fuck it, this is love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to boomboomroom and atlasliving, who have both left me some uncontrollably grin-inducing comments recently, and deserve more thanks than I could ever give them. xoxo my baby loves :,)

_BIRMINGHAM, 1927_

“Are you armed?” he asked. He rather doubted it, at least, he doubted she had it on her person. That dress didn’t leave many options for concealment, not that he was complaining. But she had a silk trench coat draped over the back of the chair, and a small black clutch. Not as immediate a threat as a holster, but even still. There was a dark mark on her neck like a smear of a plum kiss. She raised a fine auburn eyebrow, avoided his question, and it hadn’t even been the one he had wanted to pose. He _wanted_ to ask about that mark, but he didn’t, mostly because the upcoming conversation was likely to be unpleasant enough as it was, partially because he knew better. 

“Why?” she asked, tapping ash of her cigarette, and he released a tight breath, suddenly tempted to light one of his own. He interlocked his fingers, and tried to ignore the fact that her legs were completely bare, no stockings or garters, cream skin so light it was nearly luminescent in the dusty light filtering past the window blinds. 

“I told your father to leave the country,” he said, “the night of the motor company opening.” 

She froze, and then blinked, and then her brow furrowed, a crease between her mysterious eyes. He had always found her eyes appealing. In truth, she didn’t have very many attributes he _didn’t_ find appealing, but that was hardly something to cry home about. He was only a man, after all. But his train of thought was not particularly conducive to the charged atmosphere that had settled over the room like the thickening of air before a storm. 

“Why?” she asked, again, harder, her accent clipping her speech, and he cleared his throat. 

“He lied. About the motivations the Perish had for marking him, from the beginning. He was involved in their organization, he had information on them that they were afraid he would make public. Maybe they desired to use his position after discovering his potential betrayal, but that wasn’t their main concern. We deal with rats the same way. Cages or extermination.” He tilted his head, gave in to the desire for a smoke. Her beautiful face was blank, and then she gave a rather condescending, humorless smirk. 

“My father is not a _fascist_ ,” she said, slowly, deliberately. Tommy shrugged. 

“If it walks like a duck,” Tommy replied, evenly, and there was a very charged beat of silence wherein she sat back in her chair with a creak that sounded reproachful, somehow. The tied strap of her dusky blue dress slipped off her shoulder as she did so, elegantly. 

“I have been looking for him…,” she said, and he could hear anger seeping through the restrained tone of her words, through the agitated tapping of her sharp nails against the wooden arm of the chair, shining cherry lacquer flashing with the _tap tap tap,_ “For. Three. Years.” 

“Well,” Tommy said, spreading his palms, “if you had called me, I would have told you.” 

She looked so taken aback that she shook her head, slightly, rosy lips parted. 

“ _What?_ ” Another disbelieving shake of her head, shifting her mane of red. “You’re telling me you sent my father on the run based purely on your own _suspicions_ and somehow that becomes _my fault_ because I didn’t _phone you about it?”_

Tommy blinked languidly. She drug her lower lip past white teeth, scoffed, and then stared for a moment at a spot on the wall to her left, gaze distant and empty. 

“Three fucking years,” she muttered, and then she pulled the gun. 

  
  
  


He had a head start, of course, because she had to unclasp her purse in order to do so, but he did not bother to point the Colt at her, or even remove it from his holster, and to his rather great surprise, she did not level her .22 at him, either, instead pointing it at the spot on the wall she had been staring at moments before and sending off a shot before he could so much as say her name. He stood from his chair reflexively, flinched reflexively at the ear-splitting _pop,_ the sound cracking across the walls, rattling the windows, sending his blood running wild. He rounded the desk and yanked the gun down reflexively too, and her chest was rising and falling like he had caught her in a dead sprint, red-rimmed eyes glimmering with sparks, a slight flush of the same color high on her smooth cheeks. And then he realized he was touching her, and the force of it made him release her hand from his own like he had felt a shock through a conductor, but he grabbed the pocket pistol from her fist before dropping her slim fingers, and the moment her hand was empty, she raised it and cracked the back of it against his cheek, burning pain bursting across his face, Rockefeller’s heavy diamond ring catching and dragging and scratching. The force of it jerked his face to the side, shifted the gun to his dominant hand, snapped his other out to grab her wrist, his skin stinging where she had hit him and tingling where she hadn’t, burning where he held her. 

“Don’t,” he said, quietly, inches from her, she was real, he could touch her, he could never touch her in his dreams, and the dreams were nothing, _nothing,_ like smelling her scent again, feeling the furious tremble of her cool fingers, “fucking try that again.” 

“ _Try_?” she repeated, head cocked slightly, and he looked to the bullethole in the wall. It was sunk directly between his own eyes, in a picture of him standing with Churchill. The photograph was shattered, but the shot’s placement was impeccable, especially with a handgun. He worked his jaw, clicked his tongue. 

“Where the fuck is my father, Tommy,” she asked, less a question than a demand, her wrist was still trapped in his grip, so dainty his pinky overlapped his thumb, her bones and sinew tense and wired, he could feel her pulse thudding under the pads of his fingers. He was thinking about a storage closet in a hospital, how he had touched her for the first time and his world had spun and tipped and toppled right off its axis. Their eyes met, and the door opened with a clatter like the bullet had made, and Lizzie’s face was drained and colorless. 

“What’s going on?” she commanded, and Tommy mentally remarked on the number of demanding questions being addressed to him in his own office. Tessa ripped her wrist down, slipping it through his fingers. “I heard a shot-,” Lizzie said, looking utterly unsure, looking like she was checking for bodies on the floor, for blood. 

“Miss Reilly and I are speaking, Lizzie,” Tommy said, keeping his voice calm, because she didn’t need to be any more inquisitive than she inevitably already would be. She knew what to keep her nose out of, but, well. Guns firing meters from her work desk could very well be where she decided to draw the line. “Everything’s fine. Go back to your desk.” 

“It doesn’t _look_ fine,” Lizzie countered, pointedly, eyeing the shattered remnants of the picture frame, the glass glittering on the ground like scattered diamonds, like the shards of massive, exploded window panes of the hangar, shards that he crouched in as he had held Tessa’s prone form to his chest until his knees were shredded and raw. Her gaze lingered on his cheek, which was still thrumming like a spider bite. 

“So don’t look,” Tommy said, dismissively, and Lizzie met his eyes with hers to gain confirmation, hesitant. He nodded, sharply. “Go,” he said, firmly, with a wave of his hand, she tossed Tessa a glowering look which the smaller woman completely ignored, and backed through the door slowly, the soft click loud in the space between them. Tessa took a step back from him, unabashed, unapologetic, burning like a bonfire, and for a moment the only sound was their breaths. 

“I don’t know where he is,” Tommy admitted, “but I will locate him for you, if that’s what you want.” 

“Why wouldn’t that be what I want?” 

“Because sometimes it’s better for people to keep their distance.” He was pushing, teetering on the edge, she recoiled. “Or so I’ve heard.” 

She reclaimed the step that she had taken away from him, then another, and she had to tilt her head back to stare him in the face but somehow it did not deter her. 

“You’re not troubled by his past political alliances?” Tommy asked, and she inhaled tightly. 

“I was engaged to a gangster,” she said, her words as clipped as her breath, “People make mistakes. I prefer to err on the side of forgiveness.” She paused, and his chest tightened, and he kept his face blank, expression closed. “When possible.” 

“When possible,” Tommy echoed, her words swimming in his ears like water seeping into his lungs, _I was engaged to a gangster, people make mistakes, when possible. Blood loss. Blood loss. Blood loss._ “And when it isn’t possible, you put a bullet between their eyes, eh?” He thought of the news of the Rockefeller fiasco that had sent her back to him. One nameless man with a lead thought lodged in his forehead, Richard Rockefeller himself a mangled mess on the pavement to horrify passersby. The darkness that flickered within her had grown fangs and crawled out into the day. She lifted a shoulder, like it didn’t concern her, and he realized with an unsteadying swaying under his feet that he didn’t know whether or not she was performing. He usually knew. He _always,_ it seemed, knew when he was being lied to. Always knew the truth. The mark on her neck winked at him past her curtain of hair as she tossed it over her shoulder. 

“Like you said. Sometimes it's better to keep your distance.” She reached out her palm, twitched her fingers to him. “And if all else fails… well. I’m a very good shot.” 

He did not say _I’ll keep that in mind,_ did not say it because he did not want her to know, to have even an inkling, of the amount of thoughts he had that revolved around her, of the way her voice rang in his head like air raid sirens. He gave her back the gun. 

“We’re going on a drive,” he told her, and she responded with a tight-lipped glare. 

  
  
  


Lizzie was at her desk, wearing a forest green dress and a deep frown. She only briefly glanced up at May as she entered. 

“He’s in his office,” she said, flippantly, “but I would wait, if I were you. He’s got company.” 

“The friendly sort?” May asked, peering past the frosted windows, but all she could make out was vague shapes and the proud _SHELBY_ lettering. Lizzie scoffed. 

“Not really,” she muttered, and May didn’t get the chance to question her further before the door opened with a heavy creak and Tommy held it open for someone, and there _she_ was again, that Tessa woman. May felt a hot flash of irritation, and then another, deeper one at the cut of her blue dress, wondered if she had chosen the shade to complement Tommy’s eyes, intentionally or otherwise. Tommy balked when he saw her, handsome face above his impeccable suit as impenetrable as always. 

“Ah,” May said, slightly disconcerted, but she supposed that after all, Tessa worked for him now. The knowledge sat in her mouth like cold porridge, sticky and difficult to swallow, making it hard to get the words out. “I... was headed back today, the board meeting is tonight. Needed the van back from Charlie, thought I’d… come say hello. And goodbye.” 

Tommy nodded, slightly, his strong jaw and sunken cheeks and wide eyes a painter’s dream, and by his shoulder, even despite the shadows under her own eyes, Tessa’s vibrant shades glowed so brightly she dimmed the colors of the darkly decorated room, lean curves and full lips. To May’s surprise, Tommy glanced back at Tessa. It was quick, but only odder for it. Tommy tended to focus intently on one individual at a time, when he spoke, and when it was you he was regarding, the force of his aura was all the more potent for it. She didn’t know what the glance meant. She wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but she was beginning to have her suspicions, despite what Tommy had said. _You’re not her._ And to be perfectly forthright, May didn’t have much of a problem with the truth of that statement. Tessa did not seem trustworthy, decent, proper. May wouldn’t have given a damn, except for that glance. Tommy was hardly trustworthy or decent or proper, either, but he was Tommy, and that had always seemed to be the exception, for her. 

“Alright,” Tommy said, “I’ll call you.” It was abrupt, almost. May blinked. He was wearing his _I’m dealing with something_ expression, and May’s gaze slid from him to Tessa again, whose face was cold and haughty and impassive, just like it had been for that moment when they were sitting in Tommy’s parlour. 

“Actually, I was hoping to get a word with you.” May kept her tone neutral, but Tommy’s crystalline eyes snapped to her anyway, and it felt like being in the glare of headlights. 

“I’m busy, May,” he said, and the corner of Tessa’s mouth twitched, but May couldn’t tell if it was anger or amusement. She opened her purse, and May noticed with a dull jolt that she was slipping a gun back inside it, the silver glinting slightly. 

“All right,” May said, trying to cover her hesitation, to persevere, but he was already crossing the room, and to May’s surprise and disquiet, Tessa followed him. “Where are you two going?” 

But Tommy’s sharp silhouette disappeared through the open doorway, glowy morning light peeking past the frosted windowpanes that threw bright spots into the dim building. Tessa glanced over a slim shoulder, the blades of which were sharp like a knife, and walked on after him, the snap of her heels growing faint, the distant sound of the front foyer opening, the velvet rumble of a purring engine over the ambiance of the street. 

  
  
  
  


Lizzie had stumbled into love with Tommy, but she wasn’t sure exactly when. It was the same feeling you get when you knock something off your cupboard and you know it's going to fall but you still can’t catch it in time. She wondered if May loved him. She wondered if Tessa did. It was rather difficult to say for either case, and Lizzie envied them because of it, envied them for having the position to do anything about it. But nobody would look twice at the secretary when Tessa Reilly was in the room. The only salve to the burn was that Tommy did not seem capable of looking away from her, either, even despite May’s presence, and it gave Lizzie a dark, miniscule satisfaction. _Poor Lady Carleton. Now neither of us can have him,_ she thought, as May watched Tessa sweep through the door. 

  
  
  


She looked like every beautiful thing he had ever seen, sitting there in his passenger seat. She had been very reluctant to accompany him, a slim hand placed warningly on the curve of her hip. 

“You want to find your father or not?” he had asked her, and she had frowned and glared and generally threw a temper but she had gotten into the car with a silence that boded poorly for him. Personally, Tommy wasn’t sure what the fuss was about. Her father was a measly, spineless sort of man whose only redeeming quality had been his loyalty, until he had managed to fuck even that up and Tommy had sent him on long overdue holiday. The bastard was lucky to be alive. Tommy had spared Leonard for Tessa’s sake, but, well. Most things he did were for her sake or his own, even unconsciously. And every beautiful thing he saw reminded him of her. Gardens with tinkling fountains in the grand estates he was invited to luncheon at, soaring architecture and marble floors, the dew on the morning grass glittering in the sun, the day Karl had eaten a whole watermelon and spewed their white cat pink and they had laughed for hours. 

He saw her in the dark things too. For three years, mostly, he had seen her in red. In Arthur’s bloody knuckles, the rims of Polly’s eyes when Tommy didn’t know what the right words were or how to get them out, the way he had told May he didn’t prefer red lipstick but that wasn’t really the case, it was just _hers,_ all the shining and bleeding parts of him, and with her gone, there wasn’t much left. 

Of course it was during this train of thought that she chose to interrupt his inner dialogue by saying, over the growl of the engine, 

“So, May Carleton.” He tried to catch her expression in his peripheral and couldn’t make it out, just the brush of her waves down her arm. She rarely wore hats, he had noticed. Perhaps she considered it a shame to cover her best feature. “Seems a bit tame for you.” 

“You’re the one likes the hot bloods,” Tommy said, a deflection, and mentally noted that in fact, her best feature was not her hair, but her taste in horses. She clicked her tongue. 

“Speaking of, I’m taking Star back,” she said, turned to look out the window. He maneuvered down a lane, through a residential street lined with dingy flats. The city was the same as it had always been, gray and gritty and honest. Birmingham had always been exactly what it said it was, no posturing, no panache. Smoke and ash and sweat and blood. 

“You could buy another horse,” he suggested, balancing the wheel against his knee to dig into his pocket for his cigarette case. She tossed her eyes at him, countered, 

“I know loyalty is a completely forigen concept to you-,” just like he had known she would, which made cutting her off with, 

“Yeah, me and your old man, eh?” all too easy. The flickering eyes became darker like a cloud had floated across the sun. 

“Your unprompted opinion on my last living relative is incredibly helpful, Thomas, thank you,” she snapped, _Thomas,_ not _Tommy_ , “Especially considering it was your fucking ego is what got-,” she halted her words, abrpubtly, shook her head as if dismissing the conversation from it, and stared back out the window. He had mentioned her father because he didn’t want to talk about May. Didn’t really want to think about May, didn’t want to think about any of it, of the accusation in Tessa’s tone that sounded all too familiar. Tommy watched the road, took a left. 

“My ego is what got Ada killed? Is that it?” he asked, and she started, slightly, like his words had caught her completely off guard. They caught him a bit off guard as well, come to think of it, and her name still burned on his tongue like hot soot, like damnation. His little sister. 

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Tessa replied, softer, barely, glancing at him. 

“No? Why not?” he asked, deliberately not meeting her eyes. “It’s the truth. Go ask Polly.” 

“Polly isn’t right about everything,” Tessa said, quieter still but much more resolutely than he ever would have expected, like maybe she was defending him, even slightly, and in his surprise he forgot he had been trying not to look at her, sitting there, speaking to him, tendrils of copper fluttering across her face from the lowered window. The roll-down windows were a new feature, which he had added to his own vehicle because Karl became ill during the long ride between London and Birmingham, when Tommy would take him south. “I found Lucy in Chicago,” Tessa said, changing topics completely, the introspective expression on her face replaced with something much more practical. She was bouncing her knee rapidly. “Had Benson track her down for information on Jack Fischer.” 

“Why?” Tommy asked, the name sprayed red across his eyes like blood. 

“Same reason as you,” she told him. “To find out if he knew anything about the Perish. I thought they might have my father.” There was a very unsubtle drip of venom in her tone that he ignored as he piloted them around a bend. The houses were growing smaller and sparser, the streets cobbles fading to pavement and then dirt. “Your mate was there, Victoria. That’s how I knew her name.” 

He didn’t reply. She sighed and rubbed a knuckle against her eyes, and he nearly said, _Late night?_ as if he cared, as if he wanted to know, as if she could trust him enough to tell him. He was used to not having trust in business partnerships. _Partnerships_ in the loosest definition of the word. He didn’t trust his whores and for good reason, because only a few weeks ago they had ended him with a knife at his throat. He didn’t trust Alfie because that would just be digging his own grave. And Tessa knew, by now, not to trust him back, like everyone outside of, and sometimes even inside of, his family. Business partners it was, then, he decided, because he was used to that, at least. Perhaps just not with her. There was a time when anything she asked, he would have answered. Anything about her he wondered about, she would have told him. That wasn’t the case, now, clearly, and it was… He told himself it was better, this way. That she had been a vulnerability and a weakness that he could not risk, not with his life, the life that he lived, not without- 

Without leaving her with a gash across her abdomen. That’s what her trust in him had gotten her. A bullet in the arm and a broken thumb and a dead child and a perpetually missing father. And a horse he had given away because he couldn’t look at it without seeing her. A fucking mess, is what it was, and he was fading out again, like he had with May, trees lining the road flashing by in a green blur-, 

Her slim, pale hand was gently righting the crooked wheel, wedding ring flashing, Tommy’s own blood stained across the diamonds from when she had slapped him. He had been steering them gradually off the road, and she was leaned forward, correcting his mistake wordlessly, her pale knees pressed against his leg, the citrus of her perfume like a rush of cold water. She leaned back again, cocked her head, observed him like a museum exhibition. He waited for her to ask where they were going, what was wrong with him. She didn’t. She said, 

“Do you have any whisky? I feel fucking awful,” instead. He released a short, incredulous breath. 

“Glove compartment,” he told her, and they kept driving. 

  
  


“Lizzie, may I ask you something?” May asked, and Lizzie said, 

“It’s Elizabeth,” even though it wasn’t. May blinked, smiled slightly, turned to leave. Lizzie took pity on her. It was difficult not to. She sighed. “What is it?” she called, flatly, and the other woman teetered slightly on the edge of speech before saying, 

“Is he… do you know what happened? Between him and… her.” The reluctance of her tone was, perhaps, so painfully, intimately relatable that instead of slamming the door in her face, Lizzie frowned, slightly. Twitched her lips. 

“She got pregnant,” she said, shortly as she could. “Maybe he didn’t like it. That’s all I know and all I’m saying to you.” 

She went a bit white, muttered a thank you, disappeared out the door. Lizzie scoffed slightly, shook her head. 

“Fucking Tofts,” she muttered, under her breath, with a brisk shuffling of papers. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh been holding off on posting this bc Im not v happy with it :) and also I have been DISGUSTINGLY busy. hopefully I have more time to work on the next one and ill like it better. dope song tho am I right


	13. Moneytalks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The claim is on you, the sights are on me  
> So what do you do that's guaranteed?  
> Hey little girl, you want it all  
> The furs, the diamonds  
> The paintings on the wall
> 
> A French maid, foreign chef  
> A big house, with king-size beds  
> You had enough, you ship them out  
> The dollar's up, down, you better buy the Pound
> 
> Hey little girl, you break the laws  
> You hustle, you deal  
> You steal from us all
> 
> Come on, come on, love me for the money!  
> Come on, come on, listen to the money talk!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey BABIES it has been approx. 23345345 years I know im so very sorry. here is a big THICC BOI chapter to make up for it somewhat.... and you will never guess..... but it is actually a (mostly) happy one. only been like. a story and a half since we had one of those lmao hopefully it helps u forgive me for my absence <3

LONDON

There was a dark room in what smelled like the back of a slaughterhouse, of blood and meat. She couldn’t see, as the men that had taken her had pulled a dark blindfold over her eyes, so she couldn’t tell for certain. Her wrists were tied with rough rope that burned like coals where they chafed against her skin. Up until this very moment, she had been gagged, thick cloth that was rough against her tongue. 

“Please,” Victoria gasped, as soon as she could work up the saliva to form words, “Please, I don’t know what you want!” 

“Oh, don’t ye worry, lass,” replied a gruff voice with a heavy lilt that melodified his words. “We’ll tell ye.” And Victoria’s hands were too numb to feel the shakes running down her arms. 

  
  
  
  


WILTSHIRE

The countryside was a flourishing green. Tessa had grown used to the vast American spaces, the midwest beige, the colors of Los Angeles, the bleak sharpness of Chicago. But there was a quaint shade to the little lanes they passed, a quititude to the grazing sheep and rolling hills. It reminded her of being young. Before everything fell apart. America had always felt fizzy, buzzing. Her time spent there had been spent running, originally on her mother’s arm, and then alone, after she had met Tommy, and then not alone, again. She thought of Benson and Stella and especially of Emmy, who rarely emerged from her room. She didn’t eat. She didn’t speak. There was no way to know if she was sleeping, but Tessa rather doubted it. Tessa understood. It worried her, but she understood. For the past lifetime, it seemed, had slept in winks throughout the night, and had spoken almost exclusively to Benson. And Edward, if clipped conversations mostly involving business or social events really counted as speaking. The Richard issue aside, a huge aside though it was, Tessa found Edward impressively unbothersome. He didn’t mind the whores, didn’t ask about them, anyway, didn’t nag her about what she was up to and where she was going, let her run the export without interference. That was making things harder. She would be as good as signing his death certificate, or Tommy’s, by choosing a side, but there was hardly a choice. The entire purpose of her fleeing to America had been to protect the fucking family, after all, she wasn’t about to change her loyalties just because she didn’t particularly despise the man. Inwardly, she rather agreed with Tommy and thought Edward really ought to have realized that, but he was odd with emotions, like they didn’t quite compute for him. She was staring out the window, thinking, thinking, she couldn’t stop thinking because that, at least, was easier than feeling, with the kind of completely detached intensity that none of the surroundings made any impression on her. Any impression, that is, until they passed her primary school, the brick walls still painted the same nostalgic red, and she balked and had to physically bite her tongue before asking where exactly it was they were going because she had promised herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The gleaming car bumped along the narrow road, wheels brushing the neat edges, slipping past Wiltshire. Tommy had hardly glanced at her since they had gotten into the gleaming vehicle, the expensive interior of which was so pristine she felt, with her unwashed hair and previous night’s mascara, rather self-conscious. Which was just about the worst possible mindset, because Tommy had an uncanny ability to pick up on vulnerability like a circling shark smelling blood in the water, so she focused on her anger instead, bright and bubbling and ringing hollow. They were pulling down onto her lane. Tessa did not want to see the charred remains of her childhood home. She wanted it about as badly as she would have desired to dig up her mother’s casket. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, tasted the red like the smear across Tommy’s cheek, wished it was his instead. She chanced a look at him out of the corner of her eye, his sloping profile and spiderleg black lashes, irises that indescribable, nearly translucent blue, gaunt cheeks and full lips.

“I thought you said you were going to help me find my father. I’m assuming he isn’t living in the neighborhood.” His face did not so much as flicker. For a moment, she genuinely wondered if perhaps he hadn’t heard her at all, but then, 

“I did, but I didn’t specify as to when. Want to close your eyes?” he asked, in his low, rolling Brummie lilt like rough smoke, an arm curved unconcernedly over the edge of the open window. A warm breeze fluttered through, smelling of cut grass and spring water, summertime and nostalgia. 

“No.” She responded before she had really digested the implication of his question, and the minutes seemed to creep and speed by simultaneously, and then they were cresting the ridge before the Reilly estate, before she had prepared herself, before she had tightened her spine. And there, glimmering half a kilometer away, was the house, peeking out from where it lay on the sloping hill. She let out an audible gasp that she tried to suck back in, her breath caught in her throat with the word, “Oh.” 

It was exactly as she remembered it, down to the massive wrought iron gate crafted from rearing stallions, to the huge fountain of a praying angel tinkling before the manor’s white front, three stories and high windows, royal red roses wrapping in emerald vines. Tommy pulled to a stop, the car rumbling in the silence. Tessa opened the door in a trance, stepped out onto the drive, gravel crunching under her heels. The same white curtains waved past the panes of the windows of her father’s study, and she missed him with an awful lurch. Tommy cleared his throat from behind her, softly, and she turned, to see him nodding down the grassy slope. And there, at the base of the hill, were the stables. She spun the rest of her body to follow her gaze, nearly breaking into a jog in her haste down the drive, leaving Tommy following at a much more measured pace. She lifted the heavy wooden bar across the stable doors and pushed inside, her heart swelling with something equal parts pain and joy. The air was warm and heavy and dark, and she had to wait several seconds before her sight adjusted enough for her to make out the dark shape of a horse in the large middle stall. Star looked up at the noise of Tessa’s entrance, ears pricking. Tessa blinked and blinked like she was seeing double, she couldn’t believe, she simply could not believe it. She jumped at the sound of Tommy speaking from behind her, movements soft as a panther. 

“Heard Victoria shot a man in the head, pushed another off a balcony. Didn’t much sound like her.” There was a hint of something in his tone as he spoke, something she couldn’t make out without the context of his expression, which she couldn’t see, because she was still blinking very quickly and determinedly, now flooded with a different, swelling emotion as the shock faded. “Had the horse brought down that day. Just in case.” She felt him shift slightly, hadn’t realized he had been close enough to brush her shoulder as he entered the stable behind her, hadn’t realized he had indeed had his suspicions, wondered how much he picked up on without letting on, felt a swoop of anxiety rush through her overloaded heart. “Thought it was about time she came home.” His words echoed in her mind like a cave, like the gnawing hole of empty, empty space inside her where he had been. 

“Tommy, this is... this is…,” _Incredible? Mind-numbingly confusing_? “What _is_ this?” she ended up asking, and his outline was murky in the shadows of the dark wooden rafters, shoulders set, jawbone sharp even in the dark. He cleared his throat again, said, 

“Supposed to be a wedding present,” shameless as ever, unabashed, then, not quite as facetiously, “Kept it up ‘cause you were right. I owed you one.” The sheer absurdity of hearing him say the words _“You were right”_ was enough to bring her up short, much less another realization, another sickening swoop as the depth of his guilt struck her, and she needed to tell him, needed to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t ruin it, ruin this, so she didn’t speak. Tommy’s cigarette case clicked, then the slight flick of the lighter. His hand appeared in her periphery, balancing the smoke between his blunt fingers, ring flashing. She turned, to take it, to face it, and took one glance at the cautious expression on his face, like he was afraid she might try to shoot him again, before she took two quick steps forward and stood on her toes to toss her arms around his neck. He swayed slightly with the impact of her rushed embrace, steadied, stilled. His aftershave smelled of dark woods, his skin of soap and smoke. She breathed out across the back of his neck, pressed her face to his collar, the fine Egyptian cotton, the complete lack of give in his solid form. Tommy stood exceptionally still. Then, very slowly, he raised the hand not holding his cigarette, and held her to his chest for two infinitesimal, infinite heartbeats, his head dropping to her bare shoulder in a gentle touch like a blessing, soft hair tickling her. 

“I’m still cross with you for shipping my father away,” she said, her words slightly muffled where her cheek was pressed down, and she felt his huff of air across her skin before he stepped away. “And for shooting me,” she added, and his face was completely impassive, careful, impenetrable. She hadn't mentioned the baby, and he had noticed, she could see it in the flicker of his eyes through the darkness. 

“Well, you can send a bullet through me arm just the same. If it would help you recover.” She tried not to smile at his response, at the plaster that was finally cracking, ever so barely, the very faint pull of his full lips, but it was a futile endeavor. She wanted to tell him she had missed him, wanted to tell him everything, but she just stared into the brilliant blue and he was still so close the tips of their toes touched, she could have counted his eyelashes, could see the white scars across his skin. And then he took another step back. 

“Come see the house,” he said, his voice even but his steps brisk and clicking on the paved stones of the stable. 

  
  
LONDON

“Tell me somethin’, now, love,” the closest voice was saying. There were others, speaking in such a quiet tone and strange dialect that was either a language she didn’t understand, or accents heavy they accomplished the same feat. Victoria’s flesh was covered in goosebumps. “You ever heard the name... Thomas Shelby?” 

  
  
  


WILTSHIRE

“Is this all from memory?” Tessa was asking, in rather blatant awe. Anything that had been changed seemed intentional, or simply flowed so well it might as well have been. The split marble staircase was an exact replica, if she hadn’t known every intimate detail of the house’s interior, she would never have looked twice. The paintings had been replaced, and she mourned the loss of her collection, but was pleasantly surprised to find she enjoyed the selection of landscapes and still lifes, the touch of Hudson River School. 

“Mostly, yes. Got the blueprints from the city council, know a bloke who owed me a favor. Knew another who’s an architect, so I changed ‘em up a bit.” She was turning, staring, trying to take it all in and failing miserably. “Arthur chose the paintings.” Tommy took a drag of his cigarette from behind her, she could hear the inhale, echoing in the wide foyer, across the stone floors, flowing into the staircase. 

“He’s got a good eye,” Tessa said, rather breathlessly, and Tommy nodded softly. She hovered for a moment on her toes, and again, he came close to a smile, gesturing for her to proceed, and she hurried into the next room. 

  
  
  
  


CAMDEN TOWN 

Benson was still rather unnerved at the relationship Tessa had developed with Alfie Solomons. People tended to put their faith in Benson, not the other way around. He trusted few and trusted everyone in proximity to Tessa even less, on principle. Stella did not seem to share in his apprehensions, skipping around the side of a huge wooden barrel like she was at a park with a rope rather than a booming, rattling distillery, lit by the orange glow of the fires heating the massive tea pot stills. Men working them looked up curiously as they passed, pausing as they walked with armfuls of inconspicuously clinking crates, measuring and storing and producing and working, working like Benson hadn’t needed to since before the war. After it, he had joined the Blinders to keep shoes on his own feet, to protect the faux family that protected _him_ from facing an illegal stoning, courtesy of his own peers, if they discovered who he really was. What he really was. The god men always said it was shameful, evil, unnatural, and he felt their eyes as he walked a child through a relative minefield and was caught for a moment in self doubt. Tessa would have laughed in his face if he had confided any of this in her, and the knowledge warmed him. _“Fuck who you want,”_ she would say, with a toss of auburn waves, _“do what you want. Fuck them if they try to tell you who to fuck or what to do.”_

“C’mere, Stel,” Benson said, softly, firmly, Stella hopped over and took his hand. Well, his fingers. Hers were slight as a doll’s. They walked past the stares, down the line of grubby workers, their faces streaked with sweat. Their eyes didn’t hold the judgement he had been anticipating, sets of pupils glittering at the pair of them from the dark. It was envy in their worn faces, he understood, suddenly, over the crisp lines of his suit, the starlit eyes of the beautiful child beside him, pure as an angel in hell, from her shimmering golden locks to the perfectly white shoes on her feet. Stella’s head turned to a group of four or five of them that had gone silent as she passed, her light footsteps drowned out by the boisterous noise of the warehouse. 

“Why are they staring?” she demanded, which caused the men to glance away hastily in shame. Benson smirked. 

“Maybe you look like someone they know,” he said, and they walked on. 

  
  
  
  
WILTSHIRE  
  


The room he had altered the least was her bedroom. It felt obtrusive, so he had mimicked its previous state to the best of his ability, which was considerably high, given the frequency with which it appeared in his thoughts, in his nightmares. Walking her through it certainly felt like a daydream, and he begged that she would not suddenly crumple, would not leave bloody handprints on the floors, and she didn’t, only floated across the room by his side with a dancer’s grace. The nearly-gleeful look of appreciation on her face was worth the pounds, worth the time. He had told her it was to settle a debt, but he was keenly aware it was more than that, not the least of which was that rebuilding the house had been something of an escape, occasionally. Sometimes when he was sleepless, often, if he was being honest, he would drive through the night to it, to sit in the foundations like a ghost, stare through the roofless rafters to the stars during its reconstruction. Tessa’s noise brought him back, a noise torn between disbelief and delight. She was looking at another frame, this one behind glass, an image printed onto a motion picture poster. Finding one of her mother, compared to Tessa herself, was impossibly easy. Amelia Snow glittered in monochrome diamonds, a fur shawl draped over her sloping shoulders, snow leopard and elegant curls. They looked remarkably alike, but Amelia’s face and eyes were rounder. The longer she stared, the deeper the line between Tessa’s auburn brows became. She had told him once, long ago, about her family, and had promptly returned to barely speaking of them again. Tommy hadn’t been able to find a photograph of all of them together. Tessa’s silence continued, and he wondered if he ought to break it, but he couldn’t find anything to say and did not attempt pithy pity. Eventually, when she sat down on the edge of the four poster bed, he told her, 

“I’ll leave you the keys. You can move in whenever you’d like. Or not. Sell it, if you want. It’s your name I put on the papers.” And her eyebrows raised slightly, lips pursed in confusion. He waited for her response, which was delayed, as if she couldn’t decide what to address. She was often so quick to retort she barely let others finish speaking, a surprising tic for a Tory, raised to never interrupt, never come across as obstinate. Tessa turned on her higher echelon charm when the occasion warranted, but otherwise shied away from the simpering etiquette that May frequently slipped into. Tommy didn’t have much of a stance on the attitude expected of the posh title, because it was all so insincere it was actually rather beneficial for keeping things immaterial, keeping the other Lords out of his bloody business. He wanted no such concealment from her. He wanted to see her heart bare and bloody, as he always had, the only person he had ever touched who he didn’t melt like wax under his fingers. She burned everything, too. 

“Tommy,” she said, finally, regarding him with a slightly cocked head, “You shouldn’t have done this.” 

“You’re welcome,” he said, dryly, and her lips split into another reluctant smile that he buried in his pocket to hold onto like a little sliver of the sun. He walked to the bar cart resting by the wall, poured them drinks into tinkling crystal glasses. One of which he could’ve sold as a lad to buy the family food for the week, one he would’ve swiped into his pocket like the smile if given half the chance. Now, he handed the glass to her, and she took it with long, delicate fingers, a diamond flashing as she did, more jewels swinging from dangling earrings that brushed against her loose curls. She did not comment on it being barely noon. Her face turned curiously up at him, and he didn’t have the decency to pretend he wasn’t staring. She took a considering sip of her vodka, pressed her pink lips together. 

“You’re not going to tell me anything unless I ask, are you?” she said, and then, ruefully, “Perhaps not even then.” 

Tommy followed her lead, took a bitter drink, let it scorch down his chest. “Ask,” he said, ambivalently, and she crossed her legs, leaned back slightly, the hazy blue silk of her dress shifting. 

“I would if I knew where to begin,” she admitted, and he ticked his brows in grudging agreement. “If I stay here, Edward will come for me. Come for you.” Tommy hummed, noncommittally, tapped his ring against his glass. Tessa waited for further comment, sighed in resignation when she realized it wasn’t coming. 

“Did you ever want to be an actress?” he asked her, and she shook her head a bit at his abrupt divergence, but recovered quickly, raising a slim, porcelain shoulder, the strap slipping down. 

“I was in a few pictures,” she said, casually, looking for all the world like she ought to have been on a poster, under a spotlight, red carpet beneath her feet. “But I’m dreadful at speaking in front of an audience, and there were always loads of people watching me on the sets.” She dropped her eyes to the glass in her hands, took another sip through perfect, gritted teeth, said, rather bitterly, “Guess I became one anyway, in the end.” It was a strange statement, for her, off key, and she seemed to regret saying it the moment she had spoken, as she took another, larger drink immediately after doing so. 

“Survival is always a performance, love,” he told her. “In war, truth is the first casualty.” Tessa scoffed, slightly, a quick snap of breath and dismissal. 

“Please don’t quote the fucking Greeks at me,” she answered, back to her typical wit, and his lips quirked in a smirk. She gave him a pointed look. “ _Mrs. Carlton_ will not appreciate this,” she informed him, nodding vaguely at herself, and their general surroundings, like Tommy didn’t know. He decided not to respond to that, either, and she huffed and rolled her eyes. She looked younger without her dark eyes and red lips, and he wondered at her momentarily. Twenty-seven and already richer than the king. 

“Fine,” Tessa said, flatly. “You’re not going to tell me about your plans for Edward, which you’ve undoubtedly already begun, fine. You’ll need my help with it sooner or later, so go ahead and get back to me on that front whenever suits you best. You’re not going to tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to think about all of this, you don’t want to say a word about your newest fiancé. Fine. Just tell me one thing, Tommy.” She stopped, regarded him clinically, a bird in a cage. He blinked at her, impassively. “Are you alright?” 

She was probably referring to the incident in the car, where he had lost touch for a moment, and he cleared his throat, thrown that she would care enough to ask. He changed the topic again, quickly, this time, because if she was allowed a personal question, then so was he. 

“Lizzie told me she introduced you to a friend of hers,” he said, tapping the spot on his own neck where hers had been bitten. Tessa sighed heavily, took another drink, looked at him and then gave a bare, sarcastic smile. 

“Yes, I’m sure she’s introduced you to her, as well. Tell me, do you pay Lizzie for information, or just the blowjobs?” There was a bite in her words that pleased him more than it should. Likely shouldn’t have pleased him, period, but after all, there was only so much benefit denial could have. 

“She’s well compensated for both,” he replied evenly, took another drink, the vodka like petrol, then, before he could bite his own tongue, “Careful, Lolo.” 

“Never,” she said, flippantly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, ivory and roses. “Caution is just another term for cowardice.” 

“Or intelligence,” Tommy remarked, and her lashes fluttered over eyes green like dark leaves. He stepped closer to sit down beside her on the bed, a bit forwards, perhaps, but considering all the other things he was imagining doing, sitting was hardly a crime. He wanted to taste her until she had to push him away, and perhaps not even stop then. He wanted to throttle her against the eggshell blue wall of her bedroom and demand to know how she could have done what she did, how she could have left him, but he already knew the answer, and that was worse. _Blood loss_. 

“All cowards think themselves intelligent,” she countered, but he caught her eyes and she smirked before looking away, and he laid a trap because the longer he looked at her the more obvious it all was, and he needed to know beforehand, needed to know if she would up and run again if he told her, before he could stop himself from telling her all the things he wanted that he couldn’t have. Nothing had changed, really. He hadn’t changed. Still a skinny kid peering through windows at beautiful things that would never really be his. 

“Speaking of women I’ve been introduced to,” Tommy said, evenly, staring out of the window past the drawn curtains, a deep, royal navy, Tessa lounging on the rich golden duvet of the bed. “And blowjobs, actually. That’s how I met our girl Victoria. One of your new friends. Do you remember that?” She stiffened like a stuck film reel, raised herself off her elbows, a bright flash of fury in her gray-green eyes, and he pivoted and raised a hand to her throat before she could slap him again, catching the smooth skin under her jaw, his thumb pressing down exactly where the lovebite was, against her warmth, fingers tight on her delicate neck. She went still again, both of them loaded like magazines, braced together, tense and silent and locked sights and jerky breaths. Her heart beat under his fingers, her pulse thudding like running footsteps, her pupils rimmed in gold like the sheets, lips parted and face set, her neck and her truth in his hands. 

“You did that on purpose,” she said, accusingly, like he had betrayed her somehow, he couldn’t stop watching her mouth as she spoke, words buzzing past his fingers in her throat, he had to hold himself completely still to stop from leaning in. “You wanted to see how I’d react.” 

The scars on her neck were rough under his palm like torn parchment, against the satin of the rest of her skin, against the smell of apple trees and sunlight, like ambrosia. He tightened his fingers, her head tilting back with the pressure, _let it starve_ , and he was, like a man crawling through the desert, tempted to death by the mirage of a feast.

“Yes,” he told her, his voice rough like sandpaper, “I wanted to see how you would react.” Her eyes closed, contentedly, shamelessly, sirens called in his head. He commanded himself to let go, released his touch, and she did not pull back as he did so. He had already known he still wanted her, and the confirmation that she felt the same was not easing any burdens, only reminding him of the dizzying rush of pride and power rushing through his blood. Fuck, he needed another cigarette. 

  
  


CAMDEN TOWN

“Sir, there’s a Benson here to see you.” 

“The fuck's a _Benson_?” Alfie asked. Well, he grunted, and left the rest of the interpretation up to Ollie, who apparently didn’t cotton on as he lingered in the doorway like cigar smoke. “Don’t know any fucking “Benson”,” Alfie said, aloud, this time, fluttering his hands in a shooing motion, to dissipate his transparent secretary, you know. “Send ‘im on his way with a good spanking, there’s a smart lad. Teach ‘im not to come sniffing back around hereabouts for treats an’ the like, right? Teach 'im some bloody manners.” 

A voice called past Ollie’s shoulder. Benson, evidently, although Alfie wasn’t even fibbing, he didn’t have a clue who the fuck he was. 

“I work with Mrs. Rockefeller,” he said, in an impressively even tone like he was placing a bid at an auction, and Alfie learned forward in his chair with a loud creek to peer past the doorway of his office. Ah, right. That tall fucking bloke, more substantial than Ollie’s wavering form, if only due to his height and measured air. Alfie thought he recognized him, from somewhere, but he knew the other person with him without the faintest doubt. Pint-sized person that she was. Stella blinked, her head barely reaching the man’s knee. 

“Well, let ‘im in, then, Ollie, fuck’s sake, don’t be rude,” Alfie called, and Ollie’s expression was, in Alfie’s opinion, unnecessarily taxed, but he stepped aside and allowed whatever the man’s name was to enter with Stella, who teetered happily right up to him where he sat at his desk, like he was a cuddly stray mutt instead of a criminal with the blood of hundreds on his hands. “Right, yeah, you’s the bodyguard, ain’t you,” Alfie said, addressing Benson without looking at him, mussing Stella’s fine hair with his palm, which covered her whole, golden head. 

“We spoke only yesterday, Mr. Solomons,” the man responded in the same even, unperturbed tone. “You showed us to our hotel.” 

“That so?” Alfie said, sniffing. “Must not have a very memorable face, then, do you?” He chuckled a bit, just to see what the other man, this Benson, would do. 

“Your complaint is dully noted,” he said, evenly, “perhaps I’ll grow a beard,” he added, with a faint smile and nod towards Alfie’s own visage. “Got into the habit of shaving in the army. Never quite unstuck.” 

Alfie humped. Bodyguard. Of course he had been in the war. Even still, there was an inevitable, grudging morsel of respect for the man, amidst the vague irritation he was currently causing Alfie to experience. Even if the information had come with a potential jab at his own appearance. If anything, that predisposed Alfie towards him more. The bodyguard’s posture was certainly that of a soldier, his eyes a concerned shade of brown, his hair a few lighter. A jagged scar sliced across one of his freshly-shaven cheeks. Shrapnel, probably, and a beard wouldn’t have hid it, anyway. 

“Is it still ' _Rockefeller'_? Mrs., that is. I can’t help but think, right, that the semantics have likely changed, of late. Between the murder and betrayal and double-triple-fucking-crossing. Vigilante justice or whatever the fuck it was. Then, right, the fleeing for your lives, going on the run only to end up the one place that cunt is sure to come poking. My fucking doorstep, yeah?” Alfie scoffed, entwined his fingers, leaned back in his chair. Stella scrambled up onto his knee like a lemur, making his joints protest loudly. 

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, actually,” Benson said, calm, measured. He took a seat in the rickety chair facing Alfie’s desk and crossed his long grasshopper legs. Alfie’s mum had always nagged his sisters about that- “Don’t cross your legs, or you’ll marry a tailor.” 

Apparently, he had made this observation aloud, or something along it’s lines, as Benson’s flat brown eyebrows rose like wiggling caterpillars. He seemed to dismiss Alfie’s strange behavior, as people often did, and plowed on. “When Mr. Rockefeller comes knocking, I need to know that you’ll be on Tessa’s side. That you won’t fall through with your promises.” 

“Haven’t made any fucking promises, lad, have I?” Alfie said, derisively. “Not to her, and certainly not to your fucking self, mate.” He scoffed, muttered something along the lines of _Load of fucking tosh_ , under his breath, and Stella’s luminescent eyes blinked up at him accusingly like her father’s soul was watching him through them. Benson’s expression shifted, darkened. He only nodded, slowly, as if what he heard was only confirmation. 

“Stella likes you,” he said, and then stood, rather abruptly, the movement almost leading Alfie to reaching for his revolver, but he couldn’t past Stella’s position on his lap. The downy top of her head smelled of something inherently childlike, innocent, daisies and soap. “Look after her for me today, would you?” Benson asked, and before Alfie could do more than gawk at him, he left. 

  
  
  


WILTSHIRE

Tommy dropped his hand, but the buzzing in her head did not fade even as the blood flow returned, she felt dipped in the static, in the blur of the alcohol. She really shouldn’t have had the whole glass on an empty stomach. He had probably done that intentionally, as well, and she damned him for being so consistently manipulative and for looking so irresistible while doing it. Tessa felt like a live wire, with his presence immediately beside her, fought to conceal her uneven breaths. He stood in a precise movement that shifted the feather mattress, his black hair shining in the high, bright afternoon light, and she was so bemused by his sudden departure she sat and stared at him as he made his way across the entire room. He looked over a strong shoulder at her, lines and angles of God’s geometry, sharp jaw and carved cheek. He ticked two fingers at her, impatiently. 

“Don’t fuckin’ hit me until you’ve seen everything,” he said, like they were making a pact, he was standing beside a door on the eastern wall of the bedroom that had not existed previously, she could have sworn not until that very moment, like he had commanded it into being. Tessa stood, curiosity overpowering her hesitation. He turned the handle, but then addressed her again before opening it. “Close your eyes,” he said, the order so low and assured that she obeyed without even considering it. The door opened with a soft creak, Tommy’s hand settled on her lower back and she jumped at the invisible contact behind the darkness of her lids, but he maneuvered her gently forwards. She stepped into the room, and opened her eyes before waiting for permission. 

It was small, but lit by a huge bay window that took up most of the outward wall, illuminating the rows of bookshelves, the two handsome stuffed chairs, and as a focal point, the oak desk, on which sat a gleaming silver typewriter. It was perhaps the most ornate one Tessa had ever seen, mother of pearl keys and swirling engravings along the shining sides. She touched a random key with the pad of an outstretched finger, at an ironic but complete loss for words. He had done this for her out of guilt, out of grief, as an apology. And none of it was true. Well, some of it was true, but she was wondering before she could halt her own thoughts if this was where Stella could have grown up, if Tessa had made a different choice, if she had made the wrong one. She took a deep, stuttering inhale, blew it out slowly past her lips, and wished she cared that he didn’t know how to love right, but couldn’t, because he did it so wrong but so deeply, and she was the same. 

“Does this mean I have to dedicate my first novel to you?” she asked, weakly, and was astounded to hear a quiet chuckle from behind her in reply. 

  
  
  
  
CAMDEN TOWN

Despite the shame of her inherited non-religion, Stella Shelby/Reilly/Rockefeller was the kind of child that made one reconsider whether procreation might actually be the sole purpose of life. Alfie tended to feel, aside from a general sort of circumstantial protectiveness, that other people’s children were like other people’s dogs, enjoyable for a bit, but then you want to go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before the child had become part of the equation, and you couldn’t, could you, on grounds that it was still fuckin’ _there_. His mum had run a practical orphanage during his youth, crawling with children like an anthill overrun with bugs. So he had a good deal of experience with them, all of which, it turned out, was completely and utterly unnecessary in order to be equipped to look after Stella, who was the most attentive, quietest, least hernia-inducing offspring Alfie had ever met. And she was quick, too. 

“Ah, I sees what you done there, yeah,” he said, pointing at the wide sweep of green across the canvas. “That spot, there, yeah, really good. Wonderful work. I’ve always liked green, me. Happy color, innit? Cheerful. What’s your favorite color, then, cricket?” he asked, Stella took a moment to formulate her response, squinting at her painting critically with the brush held in a grubby fist smeared with various shades of drying paint. 

“Red,” she said, resolutely, and sure, she could be a bit odd, but Alfie cherished her all the more for it. The odd ones were the only ones worth the time, only ones worth a damn, in his opinion. 

“Red. Right,” he said, nodding, “Another good ‘un. Strong color, that is. Like fire. You know, you was in a fire, well, around it, while you were barely more than a squirt in your mum’s belly. A great big one. Lit up the night.” Stella’s huge eyes turned to him, bluer than the paint, bluer than the sky. He didn’t know if she understood half of what he was rambling about, but he found she liked to listen, would cock her head like a baby bird and send her flaxen braids lopsided as she did. “Yep. And your mum, she saved us. That’s right, innit. Saved us from the fire. Saved us by being so incredibly fuckable, yeah, that King Rockefeller, he swooped down, didn’ he, with his thumb up the ass of every little Yardie who ever did live-,” 

A throat cleared from quite loudly behind them. 

“Alfie,” Tessa, in a tone that clearly implied _I will kill you while you sleep if you so much as speak another word_. Alfie turned on his barstool, which was murder on his back, but Stella had insisted, and there was the lioness, come for her cub, dressed like she had rolled out of bed and into a jewelry store robbery. It made his mouth water a bit, but that could’ve been the creamy skin on display. 

“Oi, Tessie, nice dress,” he called, and he couldn’t interpret her reaction, which probably meant he was in very deep trouble, indeed. And she hadn’t even spotted the earrings yet. She came closer, heels clicking on the sanded wood like a grandfather clock. Tick, tick, tick. 

“Benson phoned. Said he left Stel with you, but wouldn’t say why.” 

Attempted emotional blackmail was why, but Alfie didn’t say so, more impressed by the tactic than he was concerned over its effectiveness. Then, 

“Did you pierce my daughter’s ears?” Tessa snapped, and Alfie grimaced slightly, braced himself, turned on his stool before the easel. 

“Proper little gypsy princess, now, innit she?” he said, amicably, twitching Stella’s small chin gently. Tessa strode closer, and Alfie bemoaned leaving his revolver in his drawer. Self-defense, see. 

“What the fuck, Alfie?” she asked, crossed arms and a clipped tone, and it was then he noticed the unusual flush of color across her alabaster cheeks. Stella smeared more paint onto the canvas, forgoing the brush entirely in favor of her palm, which left a handprint that would have fit easily into Alfie’s palm. Tessa had a dark bite on her neck. 

“You been enjoying yourself, then?” Alfie prompted, and she glared daggers at him. 

“Less so than you would imagine,” she replied, crisply. “Did she cry?” 

“Nah,” Alfie said, although there had been one surprised tear. He didn’t count it, and had promised Stella not to mention it to her mother, anyway. Hadn’t seen a thing, had he. “Not one bit.” 

Tessa tilted her head slightly. 

“Nice diamonds,” she said, and Alfie humphed, glanced at the jewels that had been recently added to Stella’s lobes, glinting little dancing specks of light off her peach-fuzzy cheeks. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lose ‘em, hmm?” he said, and Tessa shrugged slightly, as if to say _Don’t give a toddler three karats and expect them not to get eaten_. 

“I ought to be tearing you a new one, but… I rather like it,” she admitted, Stella giggled as she squished yellow and red acrylic between her fingers, ignoring the adult’s conversation completely. “Don’t let her eat any fucking paint.” 

“Mmph. Much too smart for that, isn't we, treacle?” Alfie said, to Stella, and she smeared orange into his beard in reply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u dont like AC/DC I dont rlly know what to tell u lmao I adore classic rock. again, sorry I've been so busy!! promise I haven't forgotten about you/tess/Tommy :)


	14. Put The Gun Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got ten fingers to the sky  
> My back to the wall, my white flag high  
> Her lips, just like a gun  
> She's got silver bullets on her tongue  
> He's deep under her spell  
> I'm screamin' out, but it just won't help
> 
> I think I'm cursed  
> I had him first
> 
> Adeline, have mercy  
> You don't wanna break my heart  
> Take what's mine, don't hurt me  
> Steal my money, steal my car  
> Don't take my man, don't take my man  
> I said, don't take my man 'cause you know you can
> 
> Put the gun down, put the gun down  
> Got your finger on the trigger now  
> Put the gun down, put the gun down  
> Or Imma set fire to the whole damn house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE I AM. FINALLY. I HAVE RETURNED. from the ABYSS which is my soul-sucking job lmao pray for me my loves and enjoy!! she's gud and thicc to make up for my absence <3

ASCOT RACECOURSE, 1927

It wasn’t an easy thing, being associated with a gangster. Suffice to say, the yacht and country clubs frowned haughtily down from aristocratic noses at her, and did little to hide their distaste. Their shame, really. Race board meetings were always tedious, but they had become nothing short of torture, as of late. She sat through them diligently anyway, spine straight, legs crossed. She spoke when spoken to and agreed to donate a considerable portion of money to the coffer, even though she wanted to smack the cigars right out of their manicured hands. May was doing more staring blankly down at the ledger before her than she was really listening, until she heard an all-too familiar name, a name she kept hearing, it seemed, everywhere she went. 

“-asked dig up the bloodline and papers of a deceased Arabian stallion from ‘24, gave me a very generous incentive to do so,” one of the men was saying, Charles, probably, or Henry, it was usually one of the two. He was broad and beefy and rather puffy, as if a living, overfilled pastry. 

“This organization does not accept _bribery,”_ Peter blustered in retort, wiry, thin, spectacles slipping down his long nose. May froze, suddenly listening with all her might. 

“I hardly did,” Charles/Henry responded, cooly, a continuation of an eternal pissing match, _who was richer, who was more intelligent, who had the wife with the perkiest tits,_ sometimes, May detested the lot of them. “Tessa Reilly? That’s Leonard Reilly’s daughter. The man who fronted the bill for the new track in Yorkshire. I told her we would have the information promptly.” 

“Tessa Reilly was in league with those Peaky Blinders, so I’ve heard,” Peter replied, stiff as a plank, May sighed as he turned to her just like she had known he would the moment the name had left his lips. “Perhaps there is someone we should consult about that possibility before we consider our response.” 

If May was dim, she would have seen his prompt as an opening to condemn Tessa, but that was hardly the right play when it was really _her_ involvement they were questioning. She cleared her throat softly. 

“It seems you’ve mistaken me for a carrier pigeon. If you desire to know her allegiances, perhaps you could ask the woman herself,” she stated, as commandingly as she could, wishing for Tommy’s infallible mask to be her own. Peter sniffed, wrinkling his thin nose, making the spectacles slip farther. 

“Give the little racketeer her papers,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Mrs. Carleton, if you would be so kind as to deliver them for her. That’s the _friendly_ thing to do, isn’t it?” he simpered, and May ground her teeth and forced a nod. 

  
  
  
CAMDEN TOWN 

Alfie had dark, stormy eyes, like the sea tossing the ark. They were half-lidded at the moment, due to the late hour, and the general sleepy haze that hovered in the room in the light of the fire. Tessa poured another glass, the amber liquid’s singeing smell dulled by the three she had already drank. She tapped her foot. 

“Let me ask you something, poppet,” Alfie said, breaking the pause in his words, which had become somewhat jumbled in her head. It was pleasant listening, in a way, despite the meaning having escaped her for the past several moments. He had mostly been musing, in any case, but was now sharp, like flipping the edge of a knife. Tessa blinked heavily, her head swirling. 

“What’s that?” she replied, and he leaned back, threaded his fingers together, strong, capable hands, covered in beaten gold rings. 

“What _are_ you doing? I mean, really. What the fuck is you doing?” he asked, finally, pondering over his words like a painting that needed another layer the artist couldn’t quite put his finger on. Tessa choked a scoff. 

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific,” she said, leaning her head on the back of the chair behind her. Alfie sat contentedly in his own as if it were a lavish throne instead of a spindly thing that looked like it might at any moment collapse under his bulk. He fixed her with a discerning gaze, not unfriendly, but critical, and held her eyes for several seconds, to the extent that she rather felt he was lying out her life choices and analyzing them individually, one by one. 

“I have a plan,” she told him, the conviction marred slightly by the fact that her mouth had become very lazy in it’s duty to properly form words. She took another sip of the rum. Alfie said, “Psh,” and rolled his eyes, which offended her. He was wearing his golden half-moon spectacles, and the rim caught the light of the fire. 

“You haven’t told him,” he said, slowly, a sing-song lilting his odd voice, speech round and rolling. Tessa swayed slightly in a physical shrug. 

“That’s part of the plan,” she said, and Alfie raised his eyebrows, frowning, like his expression was being pulled in two different directions. 

“Is it now?” 

“The timing matters,” Tessa said, vaguely, waving her hand and reaching for her cigarettes. Not her cigarettes, really they were Alfie’s. Well, one of Alfie’s men and therefore Alfie’s. _“It’s called a fucking community, yeah? Sharing does you well in the eyes of the lord,”_ Alfie had said when he swiped them for her. She had been out. 

“You don’t trust me, love?” Alfie asked, softly, as Tessa lit a match. It felt like living someone else’s life, with the cheap pack of smokes and flimsy matchbook. A girl with worn hands and thin ribs and a life Tessa had never known. Their hearts, however, might be evenly scarred. Tessa breathed out the rough, gritty smoke. There was something satisfying in the harsh flavor. 

“I don’t trust people, Alfie. That’s why I’m still alive.” 

Alfie’s brow lowered in a contemplative face. “Mrs. Shelby,” he said, with a slow nod, and Tessa’s stare was blank because there were so many things to choose from she couldn’t seem to settle. “You don’t trust him either, then, yeah? Assuming he is in fact a person and not a knife, yeah, who’s developed the ability to speak. And that’s why you’ve been keeping them pretty lips sealed, innit? One fuckin’ set of ‘em, anyways,” he said, with an obvious glance at her thighs, and then her neck. Tessa dipped her fingers into the rum and flicked it at him, her lips tugging up. 

“Him least of all,” she told him, and Alfie’s mustache twitched. 

“He did shoot you. Makes a bloke wonder about his priorities.” There was a dip of quiet, and Tessa stared into the flames, not realizing Alfie was doing the same until she glanced back at him, the fire stretching and elongating in her blurry view. “You remember that?” He asked, suddenly, the only person who had ever expected her to perhaps not. She was thrown. 

“I don’t,” she answered, in mostly a whisper. She didn’t speak of it. As if, maybe, if she did a good enough job pretending the whole night had never happened, it would all disappear. It wouldn’t. It hadn’t. She couldn’t stop trying anyway. In her memories, she was on the stage, and everything after was a haze of blood and pain and visceral violence and tangible fear. Her head spun and the light went with it, swirling and fading. 

“Mmph,” was all Alfie said, the fire danced as if possessed by ghosts. “Well, me, I remember it. Was watching before I heard the shot, weren’t I, never would have fuckin’ believed it otherwise. The wrong breeze and that bullet would’ve shattered your dainty fucking ribs.” The flames were warm and bright and it was so odd that something so beautiful could hurt so much. The words were slow to her, trailing, but that might have been the rum. They stuck in her ears like cotton. “Tommy Shelby is a grenade, right. You got yourself hit by one of the pieces.” Alfie cleared his throat. “Shrapnel in the lungs. Or the belly, could’ve been. Could’ve been that baby of yours really did get caught in the crossfire, right?” Everything was heavy and tilting. There was something in Alfie’s tone, warning, maybe, and her skin felt slick with cold sweat despite the warmth of the fire. _You’re right not to trust him, you should be afraid._

“If he does not still love me…. If he doesn’t love me when he finds out...,” Tessa admitted, like a confessional, “I’m not sure what he might do.” 

Alfie nodded again, Tessa had forgotten her burning cigarette and left a mark on the dirty wooden table in the bakery. 

“And there’s a woman in the way, so I heard,” he mused, and Tessa nodded back like they were trading them. “You ought to be usin’ the little one as leverage, if you asked me, right,” he said, and Stella was asleep on a cot in the back room, Benson slouched in a chair beside her, Alfie nodded in their direction. Tessa’s chest was burning, like acid. Alfie met her eyes. 

“If I need to,” she said, her teeth and lips were dry. She took another sip. “If I can.” 

Alfie regarded her, and she was trying to discern the judgement in the lines of his forehead, the crease of his brows, but either she was currently incapable or it wasn’t there. 

“Matching fucking set, the two of you,” he said, and Tessa’s consciousness was darkening like a storm coming to swallow her. She blinked against the shadows. 

“Three of us,” she muttered, glancing at Alfie, and then, “That’s what scares me,” she told him, before she meant to, and she hadn’t meant to at all, and behind her closing eyes were white teeth turned completely red, dripping every degree of crimson. 

  
  
  
CHATSWORTH  
  


Thomas Shelby was the kind of person that was completely and absolutely impossible to contact if they did not wish to be. She had called, not once, not twice, but three times, rung the house, his office, even considered phoning the Garrison, and he did not deign to respond for several days, during which she felt constantly torn, like shredded skin, rubbed raw. 

“Mr. Shelby is busy at the moment,” Lizzie said yet again, in her aloof tone, tinny over the line, when May called for the fourth time. May knocked her head against the gilded wallpaper with a dull, agonized thud. 

“How very surprising,” she muttered, wanting to toss the receiver across the echoing hall of her house. “Fine,” she said, he was avoiding her, one problem at a time, she would- she would keep her composure, one step after another. “Fine. Perhaps then _you_ can tell me. Where can I find Tessa Reilly?” 

There was a pause, and then a dry chortle, as if Lizzie found the question off-puttingly amusing. May did not appreciate the reaction and did not feel it’s insinuations boded well. 

“Tommy wouldn’t want me to tell you,” the other woman responded, May could hear her tapping a pen distantly on a desk. Her tone was still quietly humorous, seemingly at May’s expense, though she was still lost as to why. “Last time someone gave out the location of his family, his sister was killed.” Lizzie let her words seep through, over the wires, let her reference to Tessa as part of the family sink in, the brief mention of the sister none of them ever spoke of. At least, not when she was within earshot. May was glad for the separation of the telephone, unable to keep the flash of anger off her face. Constant reminders, like sandpaper, grating at her. Seeming to decide she had made her jab sharp enough, Lizzie continued. “Not so sure you’d want to know, anyway,” she said, casually. There was the sound of a drawer closing. May would’ve bet every horse in her stable that Tommy was sitting in his office not five meters away from their conversation. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” May snapped, letting the bite seep into her tone, her tongue burning from holding back the poison. Lizzie sighed, slightly, as if in surrender, like throwing up her hands. 

“Addison Manor. Wiltshire. Enjoy yourself. Oh, and tell Tessa that Rose has been asking about her.” 

And the line went dead. 

  
  
LONDON   
  
  


The hotel was quiet, full of slumbering occupants. The ride up to the penthouse in the lift was quiet as well, Stella cradled in Benson’s arms as his own eyes drooped. Tessa leant against the wall to steady herself, teetered down the hallway. Past the door, Benson disappeared down the hall to put Stella to bed, and Tessa stood in the sitting room before the windows and lit another awful cigarette. A noise behind her made her jump and reach for her gun, dropping the cigarette onto the carpet. But it was only Emmy, pale as a cadaver, hair lank and eyes dull. Tessa’s stomach swooped from surprise and then twisted as she took in the other woman’s appearance, where she sat on the chaise, her legs tucked under her elegantly. She looked like a dignified spirit. 

“You know,” she said, her voice thin and flaky, a sad impression of her cheerful chirp, “you’re supposed to drink the rum, not bathe in it.” 

Tessa blinked, bent over to retrieve her cigarette where it had gone out against the carpet. She ignored the hole it had burned. She twirled it between her fingers, then stopped, nearly dropping it again. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked, which was admittedly flimsy, but the best she was able to come up with, bracing an arm against the mantlepiece, which was comfortingly cool against her hot skin. 

“Like I watched you shoot a man in the head and my husband fall to his death,” Emmy returned, and if the wood under Tessa’s palm was cold, it was nothing to the brunette’s tone. Emmy stood, stockings bunching at her ankles from the recent weight she had lost that she could hardly afford to. “You smell like Richard,” she said, flat and accusing, eyes dull and lifeless like a corpse, and Tessa flinched, in shock and hurt, like an icicle to the heart that melted quickly into anger. Emmaline turned, untamed curls missing their usual luster and swing, nightdress nearly gleaming in the darkness. “Goodnight, Tessa,” she said, and she left. 

  
  
  
  
  


21 HOURS LATER, WILTSHIRE

  
  
  


If May had been paying attention, she might have been impressed by the glittering, shimmering green of the leaves dancing on the trees lining the drive, the elegant arch of hill protecting the manor from prying eyes, the lush fields stretching out beyond it, the deep blue sparkle of the lake before it. The smell of the sweeping lawns on the summer breeze. She was not. She was staring fixedly down at her brooch, one her mother had given her. She clutched it between her fingers until her knuckles turned white and it bit into her skin. 

“We’re nearly here, m’lady,” said the driver, and that was when she finally looked up. In the field nearest the house, a single horse was grazing, lifting its dainty black head, the tips of its ears flickering, as the car passed, the bright cross between its eyes bright as the falling stars after which the animal was named. The brooch slipped between May’s slick fingers, opening a stinging cut that immediately oozed scarlet as they passed, and before them, Addison Manor glowed, pristine as the clouds beyond it, dark ivy creeping up the mirrored face that reflected the splashing fountain, the romantic pillars. 

May took a deep gulp of steadying breath, let the driver open her door. 

  
  
  
WILTSHIRE

Stella was quiet as they walked the house together. She was too young and too used to the finery to be particularly enthused, but Tessa worried at her daughter’s compliance with the frequency with which her life seemed to be uprooted. Like running was all she knew. 

“This is home now, baby,” Tessa said, catching a glimpse of their reflections as they passed a large mirror, wondering if a toddler could sense in her tone how much she was trying to convince the both of them of her statement. “If we want it.” Stella let go of her hand to scamper towards the mirror, placing a miniature palm against its crystal surface, the heat of her skin fogging the glass. Tessa met her daughter’s eyes in the reflection, wider and brighter than jewels. “But the bad men will follow us here,” Tessa said, maybe it would have been best to keep Stella in the dark. Maybe she would have been safer, happier. Tessa worried that she spoke of it to soothe her own loneliness, and felt again the returning feeling of incompetence as a mother, using her innocent child to bring herself peace of mind. 

“Bad men?” Stella asked, curiously, like she hoped Tessa was about to tell her a story. Tessa didn’t want to sing her daughter to sleep with the stuff of nightmares. She didn’t want to bring the wrath of her own choices, her own pain, down onto her. So she crouched and kissed the top of Stella’s downy head. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” she said, softly. “It’s the bad _women_ you have to watch out for.” 

And no sooner had she finished saying so, than there was a knock at the door. 

Tessa stood before she had cognitively chosen to do so, before she was really aware of why she had done it at all. Emmy and Benson were unpacking their trunks. Anyone else was a threat. The knock came again, and startled Tessa into action. 

“Stel, go find uncle, please, love,” she told her daughter, whose vivid, cornflower blue eyes regarded her solemnly, unblinking upwards, as Tessa turned her from the door by the arms. “Now, please,” Tessa ordered, and Stella wrinkled her button nose and stomped a foot but continued on down the hall, and Tessa wanted to never have to be parted from her again, to never have anything to keep from her, nothing to keep her safe from. But she did. And she would. She didn’t even have her gun, stupid, _stupid,_ she had left it upstairs, Benson’s double-barreled sawed-off was leaning casually against the wall by the double front doors, as if waiting for her to notice it’s presence. She snatched it up, trying to keep her footsteps light, inhaled, counted three beats, three pulses of her heart, and wretched the door open. 

  
  
  
WILTSHIRE  
  


May Carleton resembled a beautiful doe in most ordinary circumstances, and from the end of the scope, Tessa was glad to have not accidentally mistaken her and pulled the trigger. Her chocolate eyes were wide, her mouth caught open in an expression of complete surprise. 

“What are you _doing?”_ she asked, incredulously, Tessa did not lower the gun, her heart still _thud thud thudding,_ worse, now, even though the threat was now of a different sort, less physical. Stella was in the house, just behind her. Stella, the walking, talking secret, with those damning, iridescent eyes. Tessa adjusted her grip, kept her aim. “Please put the gun down,” May requested, quite politely, considering, but not entirely even, a breeze blowing a strand of shiny mahogany hair across her prettily flushed cheeks. 

Tessa raised her eyebrows, the shotgun heavy on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if it was loaded, but May knew no better. “What on earth is wrong with you?” May spat, and it reminded Tessa of Emmy, of the dead look in her eyes, 

“How much time do you have?” she quipped, instead of flinching again, instead of cowering, because she was, after all, the one with the butt of a gun pressed against her shoulder and the bolt under her hand. May’s eyes were still walled in white, looking at the weapon. Tessa wondered if she had ever seen one up close before, wondered at how alike they had once been, and how different. “How did you know where I was?” She asked, May’s lovely face, sharp jaw and the large eyes, a perfect picture against the sun, which had begun to creep down the sky like a spider in its web. 

“Lizzie told me,” May said, her accent posh and words measured, even as a still sea. Tessa respected her composure, but she knew about composure. She knew it only mattered until it broke. Tessa rather got the feeling Lizzie was being cavalier about Tessa’s activities out of spite, and it made her want to stomp down to the office for a word. “Quite a lovely house,” May complimented, thoughtfully, as Tessa stared at her impassively, shotgun braced and steady. Her gaze took in the foyer past Tessa’s shoulder, and Tessa moved to block her view. May continued, unperturbed. “Addison Manor. I was under the impression it was burned to the ground several years ago.” Tessa exhaled, scoffed, letting the barrel tip and fall like a pendulum, tapped the gun on the marble floor. May’s relief was momentarily palpable, before Tessa spoke. 

“He hasn’t told you,” she said, half a sigh, cursing him for always making others do his dirty work for him. May’s arched eyebrows rose in bewilderment, and Tessa remembered his voice, once, telling her, _Winning means not letting your opponent’s defeat obstruct your own success. Someone always has to come out on top._ And she felt like she was juggling knives. 

“Who hasn’t told me what?” May asked, and Tessa smirked dryly, barely, twisted amusement at the first move of the game, the white player’s turn, the ante in. 

“Tommy had it rebuilt,” Tessa said, smoothly. “Sort of a… project of his.” 

There was a blink, a pause, a moment. May took in the house again briefly, a bird flew by overhead in the gradually darkening sky. 

“Is that so?” she asked, finally, flatly, meeting Tessa’s eyes, Tessa cocked her head, and there was a moment like the end of a negative magnet, charged and challenging. And then, from behind Tessa, a voice called out, 

“Mommy!”

  
  
  
  
  


THREE YEARS EARLIER- 1924, WARWICKSHIRE 

  
  
  
  


“You’re pregnant,” Polly said, and Tessa became immobile, her hand stalling where it was running over her hair. Then she gave a dismissive, scoffing laugh. Then her arm lowered. They were standing before the folding mirror, Tessa in her emerald gown, still glittering with pins. 

“What?” Tessa asked, even though Polly knew she had heard quite clearly, judging from the blood seeping out of her skin until Polly could see the blue veins under the surface like a map. 

“Pregnant,” Polly repeated, reaching out and around to tap Tessa’s stomach gently. Tessa recoiled at the touch, stepping back with a breath that seemed pulled from her by her lung’s own accord. 

“Ah, no,” Tessa replied, “that’s not- I’m not- how could you _possibly-,”_

“Well, normally, I’d read your leaves,” Polly answered, matter-of-fact, Tessa managed to raise her eyebrows weakly, otherwise still and tense, spine straight and chin set. “But for christ’s sake, girl, just look at your tits,” Polly continued, coarse, maybe, but no less honest, gesturing at the mirror, Tessa did, very fleetingly. Then, suddenly, she swayed, muttered, 

“Fuck, I think I’m going to be sick,” and then Tommy walked into the room. 

  
  
  


1927, WILTSHIRE

  
  
  
  


“Mommy, look, look-,” a voice was saying, a child’s voice, unmistakably. Tessa’s auburn waves spun like licking flames following the sharp turn of her head, but it was too late, “Come see, come see!” the small voice was saying, and then she came into view and stopped dead, and she and May locked eyes. Tessa was speaking before the child had even teetered to a halt. 

“Ada Stella, turn around. Now. Go back upstairs with Uncle Benny and do _not_ come back until I give you permission, you understand?” Tessa commanded, her tone harsh and snapping, the child blinked. May could see the sweep of her golden lashes even from behind Tessa, closing over irises a bright, shattering blue. May stared back, with a foot still stuck in denial like mud, and then, _Ada._ That was Tommy’s sister’s name, wasn’t it? His sister, his eyes, his- his- May might have stumbled, put a hand to her lips, feeling the leather of her gloves, tasting the sour shock. Tessa wasted no such time, as if she had been preparing, as if she was prepared to do anything, she took three steps past the open doors to join May on the shallow steps before the manor, slamming them closed behind her, left the shotgun lying on the marble floors. May was glad to see the weapon discarded, until she realized Tessa was holding a knife, seemingly drawn from the air. May couldn’t get anything past her throat, into her lungs. Tessa’s eyes were bright and dark and darting, a tiger before it bit, May’s mind was spinning like a top across the floor. 

“You speak of her to anyone,” Tessa said, the knife edge glinting, the scene so oddly idyllic against the venom in her pale face, “I swear to fucking God I will cut your throat while you sleep.” 

May’s stomach churned, the fear all the more potent when mixed with the surprise, the feeling of a rug being pulled out from under her feet, missing a step downstairs. Tessa’s skin was smooth as cream, the scars on her neck impossibly whiter, a blotch of mottled purple dark against them. 

“That’s- you were- she-,” May stuttered, looking at the closed face of the wide doors as if she would be able to see the child through them, the child, Tommy’s _child-_ , 

Tessa lifted the knife warningly, and May’s bones felt brittle and somehow she managed, “He doesn’t know?” Pleading he didn’t, pleading to the sky and a god she had stopped believing was listening. Tessa shook her head, once, barely, the line of her jaw tense. 

“I will kill you,” she repeated, her tone too gentle for her words, too sure, too-, “I would kill you for her. If you-,” 

“I heard you,” May said, her eyes on the blade, held outward in Tessa’s fingers, her thoughts a tangle of dark weeds she couldn’t untie, panic settling in like it was making a nest in the ventricles of her seizing heart, if it was a bluff, she could call it, maybe it was, maybe it all was, “You wouldn’t dare. If Thomas discover-,” But Tessa’s laugh cut off her words, a pointed, jagged thing like the weapon’s edge, a flash of white teeth, May wasn’t sure if they were talking about the child or her own life-

“He would be displeased?” Tessa finished for her. May had seen Tommy’s reaction, or lack thereof, to the discovery of Tessa’s actions. The murders in the states that had sent her back into his path. Would he care more, if it was May? The question hung between them in the air, Tessa’s expression was haughty and set. She pointed at the door. “That was his daughter, you understand that, yes? His flesh and blood. His, and mine. Ask yourself who he would choose, Mrs. Carleton. And be careful to not give the wrong answer.” 

She kept her silence and ignored the way the blood was thudding in her ears. 

“Good,” Tessa said, sounding, suddenly, so like him, so facetious it was nearly offensive, then, suddenly, almost imploring, “I don’t want you to be my enemy.” And she lowered the knife. 

  
  
  


WARWICKSHIRE

  
  


The phone was ringing. Recently, it felt like the damn thing never stopped. In the war, sometimes, he would speak to the same seven men for the better part of a year. Now all the cousins and fathers of Birmingham seemed to have his home line. He had given the girls at the exchange an incentive not to send through any calls he hadn’t warned them would be coming, and yet, the shrill pierce of the telephone was near rattling his whisky. Which was why he began the call with a crisp “Yes?” and that, perhaps, set them off to a bad start. From the other end came an annoyed sigh, the source of which he had yet to identify. 

“Is there anything you think you ought to inform me of?” said a voice, and May’s tone was barbed enough to give a man tetanus if they poked wrong. He beat down the irrational impulse to be bizarrely, moderately proud of her for managing such a tone, although it was still clear as the surface of an undisturbed pond. He settled into his chair and lit a cigarette in preparation instead, and waited for her to begin, which took a while for her to do. Evidently she had expected him to apologize immediately, without even knowing the crimes he was being accused of. He had a feeling he _did_ know, but that didn’t mean he needed to incriminate himself, so he just waited. 

“Maybe you could begin with, oh, I don’t know,” May offered, a little too detached, “maybe… Tessa Reilly?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy muttered, before he could help himself, and that helped as little as his abrupt salutation had. He could feel the ice over the line like May’s anger was electric, but it felt like a shock instead of a thunderstorm, he was fighting a losing battle against the pull and it was coming out of him, in the way he avoided her calls, in the snap of his voice. She had reason to be angry, really, he wasn’t angry at her _for_ it, he was angry at himself, at his fucking self, always. 

“She held two different weapons on me today, you know,” May said, conversationally, Tommy sighed. “When I met her at her _house.”_

There was enough emphasis on the last word to ensure he grasped the meaning, as if he would have missed it anyway. 

“What the fuck would you do that for?” Was what he answered her with, after a pause, which, in the trend of the night, did the opposite of appease her. Her silence was colder even than her speech. 

“Thomas,” she said, eventually, after he had nearly hung up the phone, “I know that it won’t mean much, coming from me, but... you can’t trust her.” 

He waited, wondered if she could feel the sharks swimming in the water she was treading, and realized she didn’t. She had no idea, no concept or context for the danger she was in. It was as reflexive as a blink to him, his fingers flexed momentarily, _how dare you say her name,_ he was snarling to everyone, anyone, any poor fucking soul in the world who dared touch her, dared speak ill of her, a buried impulse that raised a fanged head every time, without fail, another, newer, answer: _I know._

“Why not?” he asked, instead, and there was an interpretable sigh from his invisible conversationalist. He took another drag of his cigarette, caging himself, because it was May, of all people, the worst of all people to tread on the lion’s tail. 

“I… I can’t say,” May replied, which set an alarm off in Tommy’s head like an air raid siren, but he kept quiet, kept his own secrets like the women were. He was tired of having talks with others that he had internally established days, even weeks, prior. Clearly, May wasn’t going to tell him anything he didn’t already know, including how she felt about all of it, which had become abundantly clear. 

“Right,” Tommy responded, not bothering to keep the irritation at bay, a spike of pain flashed through his temple. He should be sleeping, but he wouldn’t, so he didn’t bother, much like he didn’t want to bother with this call. “Well, if you remember how to construct sentences, I’m all ears, otherwise-,” 

“Who is Rose?” May asked, and Tommy blinked even though she couldn’t see his exasperation. 

“A whore?” he replied, monotone, wondering if she was trying to set a rather flimsy trap, and doubting it. She was never petty, it was beneath her, which was why he found her curiosity on the subject of Tessa rather strange. There was a beat of calculation, and May said, 

“So she sleeps with women?” which took him a moment to unravel until he remembered the topic of their discussion, and then he pinched his nose. 

“May, whatever this is about, could you _please_ just fucking-,” He heard her dignified huff, reset himself, refocused, “Why did you go to her house?” 

The pause on the other line told him she was still none too happy over her reception, but she told him, grudgingly, slowly. 

“She wanted records for a horse,” May said, “haven’t the foggiest why. You didn’t mention you were rebuilding it. The house,” May clarified, as if there could have been any confusion. Tommy took another drag. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, “Sometimes I don’t tell you things.” He let the statement sink like a pebble into water. It was obvious to the point of redundancy, but heavier, somehow, the knowledge changed and laden. 

“What an understatement,” May retorted, cooly, and he had bigger issues at hand than her jealousy, Churchill’s request, the Irish, the Perish, Leonard, Rockefeller, the murder trial, the safety of his family, the list was longer, much longer, than his patience. “Murder, cocaine, prostitiutes,” May tallied, like a scoreboard of sins, like she had echoed his thoughts somehow, then, quieter, softer, “Is there nothing you wouldn’t forgive?” 

He needed more whisky, another cigarette, a dose of poppy that would let him have some blessed fucking peace, he cleared his throat and spoke and the words were like swallowing thorns, 

“I shot her,” and he had, after all, the truth would come out eventually like it always did, “Used her and got her shot and got a dead fucking baby out of it, so no, May, there’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive of her, and no, that isn’t going to change,” he said, it was better if she knew, the truth would come out and the truth was that-, “I’m sorry if that… if that’s hard for you to accept,” he added, because he knew he couldn’t just end it like that, and to his gut-wrenching surprise, he thought he heard a waver in her voice, like maybe she was crying. 

“You know something, Thomas?” she asked, “It rather is.” And the line went dead. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I love you all so much, and again, sorry ive been GONE?? missed you to death really  
> do we feel bad for May or do we wish she would fuck off and let our two favorites tear each other's clothes off?? lemme know lemme know <3


	15. Kiwi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes  
> Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect  
> And all the boys, they were saying they were into it  
> Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck
> 
> She sits beside me like a silhouette  
> Hard candy dripping on me 'til my feet are wet  
> And now she's all over me, it's like I paid for it (cha-ching!)  
> It's like I paid for it, I'm gonna pay for this
> 
> Driving me crazy, but I'm into it, but I'm into it  
> I'm kinda into it  
> It's getting crazy, I think I'm losing it, I think I'm losing it  
> Oh, I think she said "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business!"  
> I'm having your baby (its none of your, it's none of your)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello BABIES we doing okay?? staying positive and testing negative?

_ WESTMINSTER _

  
  


“If it was anyone else, I would tell them forgoing a solicitor is a foolhardy endeavour, and to not attempt it even under the most dire of circumstances. But, of course, you are not anyone else, and would likely dismiss my advice regardless, so I will not,” Churchill was saying, Tommy was nodding and speculating whether or not the fact that he wasn’t listening was evident. The trial was an ongoing battle with new casualties daily. Two steps forward and one back, every bit of it. The court appeal was approaching, and he needed all the pieces to fall together just so, needed every precaution to be failsafe, needed to approach from every possible angle. He had most of it as precisely laid as he could, the timing, the facilitators, the men in the field. It would be dishonest to say he didn’t enjoy it somewhat, the plots and schemes, but ever since Colindale, he was warier about them, keener. He had learned, if only in some ways. It seemed that the passing years had yet not yet granted him the celestial knowledge of what the fuck to do with  _ women  _ (obvious response aside). As it turned out, attempting to perceive Tessa exclusively through a lens crafted from professionalism and suspicion did not make her any easier to handle. And of course, there was Rockefeller, and the fucking Irish, and he hadn’t heard from the real Victoria about the files on Fischer, and  _ then  _ there was the fucking trial, Ada’s trial, his little sister- 

“Mr. Shelby,” Churchill called, rather loudly, but loud noises had stopped startling Tommy since he had listened to shells whistle by his ear for hundreds of sleepless nights, so he only looked up, realized he had been staring at a spot on the carpet until he did so. “You seem a bit preoccupied.” There was a peering over lowered spectacles, like Tommy was a distant word Churchill was trying to read. Then he barked, “What are you, drunk?” 

Tommy cleared his throat, which was dry as fresh cotton. “No,” he said, and held back,  _ unfortunately.  _ “I’ve been working long hours. Forgive me.” 

Churchill huffed, as if unimpressed, which would have been justified, and Tommy felt a hot spike of shame, or perhaps he had a headache coming on. It was difficult to tell. 

“You, sir,” Churchill said, quietly, and his voice didn’t hold the superiority Tommy had been expecting, “Look like a man using his gun to walk across the pit of hell.” There was a breath of silence. Tommy lit a cigarette as an excuse not to respond, the flame brushing hot over his thumb, but then Churchill nodded meaningfully. “Keep going,” he said, just on the edge of encouraging, and Tommy knew he ought to be appreciative but could only come up with mild surprise. He inhaled, nodded slightly, hoped that was enough. 

  
  
  


_ BIRMINGHAM _

  
  
  


“There’s a message for you,” Lizzie said, instead of just telling him what it was. Considering he had been back to the office for over an hour and she had waited this long to inform him, Tommy had already narrowed down who it could be from before she had crossed half the floor to approach him. He had been correct about the headache, and had drawn the blinds and drunk two whiskys, but it plagued him like smoke rising from a campfire, following in circles. He shot Lizzie a look, still mostly consumed with, well. Everything. Currently, specifically, managing to get hold of the lord justices and the High Court judges. Lizzie’s hands were perched on her slim hips, like Polly did when she was cross with him, which was most of the time. “Tessa Reilly said she found a name. She wouldn’t tell it to me over the line.” 

Tommy was very careful to keep his face impassive, knowing even a flicker of pride would get him a glare at best and his whisky hidden otherwise. He raised his eyebrows slightly, said,

“If you had told me that an hour ago, I could’ve been halfway to London by now.” The shadows were creeping over the roofs of the buildings past the parting of the blinds, stretching out like reaching fingers. 

“It’s not her house you should be going to,” Lizzie said, firmly, Tommy’s eyebrows raised higher at her bold tone. “There was another message, from May Carelton. She says she needs a word with you, in person.”

Tommy rubbed his thumb across his eye, trying to make some of the pressure subside, stopped himself from muttering  _ Fuck _ under his breath. 

“Tommy-,” Lizzie began, and they both knew he knew what she was going to say, so why did she still have to do it? “You’ve never made a lame horse suffer before,” she said, “do the right thing and put her down. Spare the bloodshed.” 

“When have I ever spared the bloodshed, Lizzie?” Tommy asked, and she looked  _ sorry,  _ sorry for him, even though she shouldn’t have, even though she didn’t know why, so he said, “Go,” and did not look up again until he heard the click of her departing footsteps and then the angry slam of the door. 

  
  
  
  


_ BIRMINGHAM _

  
  
  


Eventually, he gave in, picked up the phone. 

“You’re being childish, you know,” she accused, immediately, he bit back his snap. 

“I’ve lots going on, May,” he said, which was fucking  _ true,  _ goddamn it. She cleared her throat. 

“Well, you’re about to have more,” she said, which made his brow furrow. “Where will you be tonight?” 

He let the question sit and cool like a coal he was about to dump gasoline onto. “I’m busy tonight,” he said, 

“Tommy,” she replied, softly, he gave in. 

“You aren’t going to like it,” he warned, May shifted over the phone, like she was adjusting, like she was bracing. 

“Just tell me where,” she said, and he did, past gritted teeth and all. 

  
  
  
  


_ WILTSHIRE _

  
  
  
  


_ BANG.  _

Tessa jerked awake, frantic, tossing the golden duvet off herself, sitting straight up and reaching instinctively to the bedside table’s drawer, she was halfway to opening it when Ripper lifted his head curiously from the foot of her bed. She stalled. If a shot had been fired, Ripper would have woken as well, would be sounding the alarm. Another dream, then. Less a dream, and more a memory. A memory she couldn’t remember, at that. She pulled jerky breaths into her lungs, listening to the thud of her heart, trying to calm the rushing of the blood in her veins. She braced her head between her raised knees, fumbled for the cigarettes on the nightstand instead of the Beholla. Ripper trotted to the bedside, bright eyes concerned, stump of tail wagging slightly. She sucked air between her teeth, then past the unlit cigarette as she held it between her lips to scratch him behind the ears, swiping for her lighter. Her father would never have permitted her to smoke indoors, but it was her house, now. Leonard did not approve of cigarettes in general, and especially not of the women who smoked them, but he had married one anyway. So Tessa lit the cigarette and stilled the tremble of her fingers, thinking about parental hypocrisy, how the phrase “ _ Do as I say, not as I do,”  _ was really a command to their progeny to surpass their own achievements, how many wanted it from their offspring and yet didn’t who want it at all for their own ego. Tessa did not sympathise with that particular dilemma, but wanting something while not wanting it at all… that, she understood. It was how she seemed to feel about everything, lately. Edward’s demise, Tommy discovering the truth, finding her father. She used to know with crystalline certainty, she used to be resolute, used to have definitive stances. Now, she felt like she was wandering through a life of grey shades and smudged lines, and she woke gasping from dreams of horrors she couldn’t recall. Sometimes, the bullethole in her arm twinged, like she was being prodded by ghosts. Tessa realized she had been unconsciously holding her breath, her lungs burning from the smoke, dry as she exhaled it past the back of her throat. She rubbed a hand across her face, and with a momentous effort, stood from the mattress, Ripper trotting backwards to allow her to touch her bare feet to the floor. They padded together to the dining room, where Benson was seated at the large, round table, reading the paper with his collar open and brown hair damp from the shower. Tessa took another drag of her cigarette as she sat down across from him, mindlessly smoothing her palm over the silken top of Ripper’s head, his dark coat gleaming. 

“Sleep well?” Benson asked, with a quick look over the top of his newspaper that suggested he rather doubted it. Tessa let out a heavy, tired sigh before she could tighten her mask, smoke brushing out from her mouth and dispersing over the surface of the table. 

“Can you watch Stel today? I have to go to Birmingham. And  _ don’t  _ leave her with any gangsters as supervision, please,” Tessa said, Benson rolled his warm eyes, honey and cynicism. 

“That eliminates both her parents,” he replied, but gave an agreeable shrug in response to Tessa’s (admittedly half-hearted) glare. “Sure,” he said, then, “you don’t want me with?” 

“I do,” Tessa admitted, “but my options for childcare are rather thin on the ground, considering how few people even know she exists.” Tessa hadn’t hired maids for the manor, hadn’t seeked a nanny. She knew better than to assume Tommy wouldn’t eventually be informed, and was trying to stall the inevitable, trying to protect her own position, trying to make sure she held the right cards when the bombs began to fall. May Carelton was making that difficult. As was Tommy, whose feelings were a complete mystery to Tessa and possibly even more so to the man himself. And hers were threatening to jeopardize the very safety she was so desperately seeking, because the trick to seducing someone was undoubtedly keeping the mission impersonal, and so far, she had been failing to do that completely. She wasn’t sure she was even capable of it at all, not with him. And she knew implicitly that Tommy’s only weakness was what he repressed the strongest. She couldn’t play the game if it wasn’t a game, if she wasn’t playing, and that was where she would fall, if she wasn’t careful, would tip over the line and at the mercy of a man who she had betrayed and she wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to defend herself. And firmly planted between her own security stood well-bred, mild-mannered May, an innocent. That was the worst part of it, really. Tessa had very few qualms about threatening Lucy, or even knocking out her tooth, because Lucy had known what she was signing up for by walking by the side of a man like Tommy. May had absolutely no way of anticipating the mess she had stepped into, and Tessa felt for her because of it. She wouldn’t have raised a weapon on her unless it was absolutely necessary, which it had been, for all the good it likely hadn’t done. At any moment, May could run to Tommy, tell him Tessa was a liar, steal him out from under her like a horse. Tessa was walking a tightrope raised over a sword pit, surrounded by nothing but rocks and hard places, and she grit her teeth around her smoke and closed her eyes and clawed for the power with tooth and nail and would hold her chin up until her neck snapped like Ada’s. 

“So let me get this straight,” Benson said, out of nowhere, as if he had been listening in on her thoughts. After three years of nearly constant companionship, perhaps he had been. He folded his paper with an obnoxious rustling, and Tessa tapped ash onto his empty plate. “You believe that the reason king Shelby has been so generous is because he feels deeply guilty over something that is actually a lie, and that once he discovers the truth, his disposition will be suddenly much less amicable, yes? And so your plan is to shag him before that happens, so that you can win him back and avoid his razor blades?” Tessa winced, and Benson hastily corrected, “Hypothetically speaking, of course.” 

“I’m not going to shag him,” Tessa said, “But otherwise, hypothetically, yes.” Benson snorted, muttered, 

“A tenner says otherwise,” and Tessa tossed a bit of toast at his head. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ CHARLIE’S YARD _

  
  
  
  


The canal was the same dull, lifeless gray as the sky, soggy with rain and dim like a sheet had been pulled over the sun. Tessa hadn’t been to the yard since the fire that had killed Johnny Dogs, and the warehouse was larger, newer, read  _ SHELBY CO. LTD. _ in golden paint along the side. Other than such improvements, it was much the same: vehicle parts and “abandoned” crates of treasure, like a pirate’s cove, lay scattered about, and a long wooden table placed perpendicular to the cut, the water still and barely stirring. Much like Tommy, who sat facing away from her on a bench with his elbows resting on the table behind him, the buzzed back of his hair exposed from the hat he had removed that sat beside his elbow and whisky bottle. He looked so unconcerned Tessa was certain she had snuck up on him, and was wishing she hadn’t made such a mistake, because he tended to pull a weapon on anyone who managed it. But then he spoke, before turning to look at her, his eyes following his words as they floated back to her. 

“So you found a name,” he said, deep and rough and impeccably devoid of emotion. Tessa gnawed on her lip and continued her approach, realizing he had known who she was because he had recognized the pattern of her footsteps. Well, that and the fact that he had asked her to come. 

“My father purchased Chase in Germany,” she said, wondering why her chest was so tight, why the still afternoon felt rippling with energy as if it were about to storm, Tommy had turned back to the canals, the glimmer of his face that she could see surprisingly set for his easy posture, mouth tight and eyes piercing. “I knew it, just never… never thought, you know-,” 

“That your birthday present was bred by fascists?” Tommy supplied, a bit condescending, but that was hardly new. He shook his head, said, “Hot bloods. If only the Germans soldiers were as good as their studs, eh?” Tessa huffed a chuckle, clicked her teeth. The air was heavy and thick on her lips. 

“Anyway,” she continued, more steadily, tucking her dress underneath her to sit on the bench across from him. Tommy was still facing away, but she could feel him listening, like a cat whose ears were swivelling towards sound. “There’s a man named Spencer Flynn. Flynn has a steel monopoly back in the motherland, racehorses on the side. Moved to England rather suddenly a year ago, I’m assuming on orders.” 

“How did your father come into contact with him?” Tommy asked, edged and cunning, rather than congratulate her on her information, and she shrugged slightly, twisting the diamond on her left hand under the table, pressing on her thumb. 

“I’ve no idea. Could have been introduced, for all I know. Depends how deep his involvement was,” Tessa said, not really trying to leech the venom from her tone. He would hardly begrudge her for it. 

“And yet you’re still trying to find him,” Tommy said, musingly, paused for a moment, shook his head again, once, slowly. There wasn’t a dark strand of hair out of place, not a speck of soot on his black coat. Tessa cleared her throat. 

“No thanks to you,” she sang back, overly cheerfully, and she caught the slight tick of his eyebrow over his square shoulders. 

“Doesn’t really seem like you need my help,” he said, and she dropped her eyes to the worn grain of the table, covered in rings from mild-sticky mugs, the whisky-tacky glasses. There was quiet. Between them, anyway. The factories boomed and clanged like sound machines in the background, forges billowing and steel colliding. “However,” Tommy said, finally turning, lifting his leg over the bench and angling to face her, and she wondered why she looked at knives and flames and him and still wanted to reach out and touch. “Yours, I could use.” 

Tessa pulled back immediately, because it was fucking Tommy, and his propositions never entailed a leisurely trip to the shops, and if they did, it was because she was meant to be intentionally abducted during. She crossed her arms, the thin calf leather of her trench coat squeaking as if in protest to his words. 

“My help with  _ what?”  _ she asked, cautiously, she could already hear Benson in her mind, telling her off for even considering it, for even asking, for even listening for a moment-, 

“Ada’s trial,” Tommy said, smartly, interlocking his blunt fingers. He still wore his golden rings, the one on his pinky that all the brothers donned religiously. Tessa ran her tongue across her teeth, tasting the metal brine of the fog. She sighed, like a balloon popping, a white marble grave swimming in her eyes, Ada’s laugh that she heard, sometimes, now only in her dreams. 

“Fuck off,” Tessa said, and he made a taken-aback face at her bite before he caught her own expression, exasperated and resigned, “of course. Of fucking course. You  _ knew _ that was the one thing I can’t refuse.” 

“You could,” he said, smoothly, and she scoffed in doubt. It was a safe bet for most people not to risk it, not if they wanted to remain whole. Other people, anyway. His family was the only exception, and although Tessa counted herself among that number, she would have said yes anyway, because she couldn’t help herself, never could, probably never would. Danger aside, always aside, and the look on Tommy’s face, and Ada’s brothers carrying her casket into the grave-,

“I could, but I’m not,” she said, and he didn’t smile, really, but the corners of his full lips tugged slightly, faintly. It was like reading a book written in invisible ink, trying to interpret him, the words only visible in the right light. 

“You don’t even want to know what it is before you agree to it?” He cocked his head, like a curious crow, like for some reason he was surprised, and Tessa thought privately that he had been spending too much time with his gentle little civilian. “Could be dangerous.” 

“You promise?” Tessa asked, wryly, this time, the smirk she got in response was real, if fleeting. “And since when are you a supporter of letting me participate in the sport?” she asked, there was a pause, and then,

“I need to reach some people,” he said, casually, clearly having elected to ignore her question completely and pulling out his cigarette case from his coat pocket, the scar across his forehead glinting very barely as he glanced down. She rolled her eyes, a motion he missed as he selected a smoke and stuck it between his lips, then immediately removed it to speak again, gesturing with it in his fingers. “Arthur and John have their assignments, I’ll get you the details of your own. As well as ten thousand quid, for your time. What currency would you prefer payment in?” Brisk as an autumn breeze, he was, drier than a fallen leaf. 

“Twenty thousand,” Tessa countered, without missing a beat, Tommy’s face remained closed and impassive as he flicked his lighter, the tiny flame’s shadow catching momentarily on the contours of his cheeks. “Pounds, please,” she added, and he blinked, blue eyes glowing and insolent. He took a drag, filtered the white smoke back up his nose before responding. 

“Why are you still wearing your ring, eh?” he asked, she balked at the sudden change of topic, the diamond pressing against the pad of her finger. 

“It’s pretty,” she said, flippantly, ignoring the way her heart had caught in her throat, “Why waste a pretty thing?” 

He was silent, and she assumed he was resorting to simply not responding, as was his habit, when, without any warning, Tommy stood in a fluid, precise motion, and rounded the side of the table. Stood above her where she sat, he looked much taller, a shadow blocking out the light of the faint, hazy sun. He reached out a hand, and she stalled, unsure what it was he desired, what it was he wanted from her, slowly, she lifted her own, her brows knitted together in confusion. He observed the glittering jewel for a moment, his fingers cool and dry, then, his expression unchanged, slipped it off her finger. 

“What-,” Tessa began, but with a tight flick, he sent it  _ plopping  _ into the dingy water of the cut, instantly lost under the murky surface, it’s ripples disturbing the calm. Tommy faced her glare without so much as a moment of remorse, his handsome face arrogant and prompting, Tessa released a quick breath. 

“Thirty thousand,” he said, leaning past her to swipe his hat from the table, his aftershave and rough smoke brushing her nose. He nodded slightly at the dark water, the surface smooth again. “Call it reimbursement,” he said, equally cheeky and assertive, and Tessa muttered under her breath, huffing. He paid her tantrum no mind. He cleared his throat, turning to leave, 

“Come on,” he said, “Family meeting at the Garrison,” and then, before she had so much as worked through his actions, much less his words, much less stood to follow, he began walking away, drifting smoke behind him like spinning wheels against pavement. 

  
  
  
  
_SMALL HEATH_

The Garrison was a different animal when it was in full swing. Tommy had said he was attending a family meeting, but why here, of all places, she couldn’t fathom- the laughter was uproarious, the drinks were being sloshed around in rough, uncoordinated hands, and to be perfectly honest, May had never been in such an atmosphere before in all her life. Toft parties were stuffy affairs, donned in linen crisp as the frowns on all the faces of the men, that smelled of scotch and assurance. There was no such dignity here, no presumption, the women hung on men’s arms and laughed with their teeth, several blokes had gathered around the piano and were improvising drunken lyrics to the melody. It was strange, the disconnect between the pub’s interior and the behavior of its occupants, as if no matter how lavish their surroundings, the people would always remain the same. May’s thoughts led her right back to the one man she was desperately trying to distract herself from as she pushed through the crowd to the rowdy bar, getting jostled by bodies smelling of salty sweat and bitter ash. The bartender did not acknowledge her when she cleared her throat, so May tried an, 

“Excuse me,” which took two attempts before he paused his perfected pint pull and glanced up at her briefly, stuttering into a rather obvious double-take. May smiled, encouragingly. “I’m supposed to meet Thomas Shelby, do you know where he-?” 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the magnificent Lady Carelton,” a voice boomed over the heads of the room, interrupting her, May turned to see Arthur approaching with his hands spread like a god welcoming his favorite prophet, with John, all swagger, grinning at his shoulder with a toothpick between heart-shaped lips. They were both in fine suits, two big cats with gold-tipped fangs. 

“Hello, boys,” May said, she had to nearly shout to be heard over the strains of the piano, the general cacophony. In the distance, a glass shattered on the floor. “Having a bit of a party, are we?” She asked, John smirked and ducked his head to hide it, Arthur took a bold swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, cutting its contents by half with a satisfied grunt. 

“Yeah, well, ‘till boss arrives, anyways,” he said, ruefully, May gave him a look of mock sympathy. 

“Do you know where he is?” she asked, Arthur’s mustache twitched before he spoke, with a slight snort and a wave of his free hand, “I was supposed to meet him here.” 

“Yeah, with Tessie, innit he?” John interjected, Arthur winced at his brother’s words and stepped backwards in an attempt to trod on his foot, but it was poorly aimed and mostly just ended with him smacking his back against John’s chest. “What?” John barked, offended, rubbing his bruised breastplate, Arthur muttered, 

“For Christ’s sake, John, fucking shut up, will you?” at him in an undertone that carried, somehow, under all the other sounds into her ears. And then John glanced to May in dawning comprehension. “Right,” he said, quickly, then added, “Sorry,” as if he felt an apology was warranted, which was worse than all the other implications combined. 

“It’s quite alright,” May replied automatically, wondering if she should order a water just to have something to do with her hands, wondering whether Tessa was telling him of her lies, right at that very moment, wondering what on earth he was going to say. The following, tense pause between them was cut blessedly short, and for a moment, May was terribly grateful to whatever had caused the distraction, but then,

“Ah, there ‘e is, look,” Arthur was saying, people were turning in their seats like puppets on strings, their gazes settling on the opening door like they knew to, somehow, and then the room fell still. A hush traveled across the floor like silent waves underneath the sea, the chatter stilled, the laughter stopped, the piano stalled its melody. Tommy’s expression was exquisitely closed, as if he found the reaction to his presence completely commonplace, as if silencing a room simply by entering it was his birthright. Then he paused, held the door ajar for another moment, and stood back to allow Tessa to follow him indoors, removing her leather coat from her shoulders in an elegant motion as she did so. May could feel the weight of the crowd’s gaze shift from Tommy to the woman beside him, and pressed her lips together to suppress a bitter sigh that still escaped from her nose. Tessa’s chin was lifted above her long neck, green eyes dark where Tommy’s were nearly colorlessly blue, the barest hint of ice in a wasteland. The waves of her thick red hair seemed to fall in perfect intervals, the shimmering, deep red of rubies. His was an inky black, as he removed his hat, the Blinder undercut proclaimed like a badge. They were spectacular side by side, and it really was difficult, as a woman, for May not to hate her instinctually. After a brief moment of consideration, May was mildly surprised to conclude she didn’t hate Tessa because of that. Now, after finding out the truth, she felt she rather understood her. Disagreed with her, strongly, in terms of survival technique, but you know what they say about desperate measures. No, it wasn’t hatred that was squeezing her throat like a vice, it was trepidation. The uncanny feeling of watching dark clouds gather on the horizon, crackling with thunder. May wished this new revelation would soothe the sting of watching Tessa cross the still-silent room by Tommy’s side, but it didn’t seem to, somehow. Tessa’s pupils were flicking over each of the faces watching her as if in reprimand, until she reached the counter, when they settled on the bartender, who was nervously fiddling with his apron. 

“Whisky, please, neat,” she said, into the quiet. The young lad behind the bar glanced at Tommy, who blinked slowly, the tiniest, impatient tick of his brows sending the boy scurrying to procure a glass, asking

“Er- Scotch or Irish?” Tessa smirked slightly. Her lips were again painted in an acid red. 

“I’m Miss  _ Reilly,”  _ she articulated, light and clipped and American, enough humor in her voice to still some of the barkeep’s trembling nerves, “Take a gander.” 

The man stared for a moment, then, “Right,” the barkeep said, nodding, Tommy lifted two fingers for another, and as the pouring of the drinks began, so the conversations slowly started to flow, like a block had been removed from a stream. May suddenly became aware of Arthur and John watching her watch the couple at the bar, and she snapped to with a slightly overcompensating, 

“Aren’t you all supposed to be attending one of your murder meetings?” which made the brothers lock eyes in a meaningful glance she doubted she was meant to catch. But really, they were hardly subtle about it. “He’s here, and yet, the party continues.” Arthur cleared his throat, pointed vaguely at the bar where Tommy and Tessa were speaking together, both of their backs turned. 

“Got lots to discuss, hmm?” he said, firmly, May rolled her eyes and wished for gin. 

“Yes,” she said, darkly, mostly to herself. “As do we.” 

At the counter, they had turned from the bar to face the room, Tommy finished his drink with a hiss of teeth, Tessa was speaking with hers in a slim-fingered hand. Her wedding ring was gone. No more Mrs. Rockefeller, it would seem, easy as that, their words were fast but their voices were low, and May was considering, judging, trying to connect the pieces, what little she knew. Polly had mentioned that they often fought, or, at least, the Arrow House staff had made that clear. May could imagine that from Tessa easily, thanks to the aggressive greeting she had given at the house Tommy had rebuilt for her- and that was another thing, one that May kept remembering with a sickening lurch. She buried the reaction and moved determinedly on with her analysis,  _ I shot her,  _ Tommy had said, and then the fear and anxious slick of her palms returned and Polly and Michael weaved through the crowd towards where she stood with the brothers, Michael’s arm curved around his mother’s shoulders, and May wondered if this was how Tommy felt in the south, like an outsider, like a pariah. And she wondered why she would feel such a thing and Tessa would not experience the same, why they had chosen to accept her, why she would even desired it in the first place. 

“Evening, loves,” Polly said, smooth as the rabbit collar of the coat draped across her arm. “Would anyone like to collect my nephew so that we may begin and I can enjoy a drink without his sour-faced judgement?” 

“Think you’re safe tonight, Pol,” Arthur said, nodding at the bar, Tommy was turned towards Tessa, now, blinking at her, her face hidden by the angle, the way their shoulders leaned inwards together. Polly scoffed, glanced at May. They were all doing that like she had something on her face that no one wanted to point out, and it was becoming rather infuriating. 

“Right,” Polly said, maternal authority and royal posture, like somehow she expected this completely uncharacteristic turn of events, “And what are you doing here?” 

May felt a sigh creep up like a creature in the night. 

“Fighting a losing battle?” she offered, and for once, Polly gave her a smile, small and deprecating though it might have been. 

“Come,” she said, “While we wait. Ladies should have their own table.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, yesterday was my birthday, so this is my present to you all: the exposition is finally done, and yes, things are about to start getting the level of crazy you have come to expect from me. adore you all so very much <3


	16. 2 Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be something in the water  
> And there must be something about your daughter  
> She said our love ain’t nothing but a monster  
> Our love ain’t nothing but a monster with two heads
> 
> Why don’t you call me in the morning instead?  
> Before we turn into a monster
> 
> I hope to god I’ll love you harder  
> I hope to god I’ll love you longer  
> If only I could live forever  
> If only I could hold you longer
> 
> I turn to you, you’re all I see  
> Our love’s a monster with two heads and one heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright there's no real way to preface this so I'll just say it: this chapter is from first person. hopefully the perspective change isn't super jarring, and hopefully you enjoy it; I liked writing it even though it was... Tough haha u guys kno how I am with my little personal challenges. also, this is one of my favorite songs of all time ever. I know its weird of me to always be like "omg I luv this song!!!" as if im not the one making the playlist lmaooo sksks but obvs not everything I listen to would work for this story so I am always v excited when it does. okay enough of me!! here it is, lemme know how it goes <3 <3

T.S

When I was young, my mother used to tell me stories. Heroes and villains and adventure, tweaked a bit here and there, but I didn’t know that back then. She taught herself to read at fourteen, stealing the Bibles from traveling preachers, listening to them quote the scriptures. She believed in God and magic all at once, said, _“Well, how else do you explain miracles?”_

We didn’t have miracles, ‘cept maybe when Ada was born. My father was happy, then, not whisky warmed but simply glad, held her up in a little bundle and called her his princess. We didn’t have miracles, we barely had a roof over our heads; a vardo, most often, canvas and damp-smelling wood. It ripples heavily in the breeze, a rustle against my mother’s low tone. Her curls were a deep, shining black, her eyes an indigo blue, none of her children managed to replicate her shades, watercolor impressions of her vivid acrylic. 

“Have I told you of the traveller’s son who sold a cow for some beans?” she asks, and I shake my head. 

“Sounds boring,” I reply, young and restless, “are there dragons?” 

She always had a sideways smile, like she knows something you don’t, and she flashes it as me as she prods the fire, breathing life into the flames like the dragons themselves. 

“No,” she tells me, “But there are _giants.”_

I’m listening, now, as my father rounds the corner of the wagon, ducking under the canvas strung up to block the wind. 

“Fuckin’ Jack,” he said, his cheerfully cruel smirk pulling the scars on his cheeks, “should’ve just bought some fuckin’ potatoes, saved himself the trouble. Nothing in this world better than a potato, son,” he tells me, pointing the stick he had taken from my mother and was using to stir the flames at me, the tip glowing with embers like a lit magic wand, “you remember that. Cut one in half, you get two.” He sits by the warmth of the fire, the glow lighting the hollows of his face, puts his free arm around my mother. She leans her head against his shoulder, eyes soft. 

“Cut anything in half and you’ll get two,” I argue, mostly just to hear what he’ll say. If mum was magic and stories, so was he, but the adventures were always his own; _he_ was the pirate swinging on ropes across a ship, saving the damsels, fighting the dragons. 

“Nah, son. Most things you break you don’t get to keep,” he insists, I blink, “Not potatoes. Better than hearts that way, they are,” he says, “better than some fuckin’ trouble-stirrin’ beans, I tell you,” and my mother laughs quietly. 

“You’re mad,” she accuses, he grins and plants a smacking kiss on the side of her dark spirals. 

“Only for you, my dearest Izzy. Tell us of the beanstalk, then, love,” he says, and she rolls her gemstone eyes at him for spoiling the surprise, but continues her story over the crackling fire, over the brush of the wind. 

  
  
  
  
T.R

I wanted to be just like my brother as a child. I wanted to get to ride, to run, to play in the dirt. They could hardly keep him inside, tumbling and tramping about, but it _wasn’t befitting of a young lady,_ my father would say, and my mother would purse her lips and turn because those were the things she wanted as well. Freedom. That’s likely why she left, a bird trapped in a cage, wings fluttering, reaching for the sky. Sam was a good brother, a good boy. He was kind and generous and dutiful, and when the conscription came, he went to fight for his country with set shoulders and a sense of pride. My mother sank into the depths like a shipwreck, said it was her fault for letting my father allow it, said it was her fault for leaving him behind, _her fault her fault her fault_ but it wasn’t, and I knew that even then, and it made me angry that she wouldn’t believe me when I told her. Sam was a doctor, put on the front lines. He was only in the war for seven months before the shells were dropped on the medical tents. I watched my mother float with her bubbles, and told myself I never wanted to love anyone that much ever again, never wanted to revisit that exquisite pain. As if that was a choice that I could make. 

Stella was born on the tenth of March. She was early, and the labor nearly killed me, thirteen hours of pain-blurred struggle and screaming until they cut me open to get her out. I remember asking for my mother. I remember when she opened her eyes, bloody and squalling, cracking open as she took her first breaths of life, and mine started over for the second time, as I looked down onto blue eyes in a hospital bed. 

Sometimes I worry the only difference between him and I is that he actively seeks it out, and then I’m reminded that saying yes makes you just as culpable as offering it. It’s not that I went looking for trouble, that’s not how I ended up this way. It’s just that when I saw it, I gave in, every time. Some people are just better at resisting temptation, I suppose. Perhaps when I was young, I was too focused on survival, rather than establishing core values; instead of _I will not smoke opium_ or _I will not kill_ I told myself _I will not sink, I will not drown._ We have that in common, I think, him and I. It scares me a bit, the coldness that comes from it, that comes from memories of blood and pain and bombs and fire, and compared to my teardrop of experience, Tommy has an ocean. Sometimes I think I understand him better than anyone I’ve ever known, and as I watched him rip out a man’s throat with his teeth I could see all of my own demons spewing blood onto the ground past their lips and I couldn’t force myself to blink or turn away, _This is what you love,_ they told me, _This is what you’ve chosen. This is what you will become._

  
  
  
  
T.S  
  
  


The Garrison was warm, tinkling in low light and shades of gold. Tessa’s hair was catching the glitter of the atmosphere like spun stands of metal, and everything felt, for a moment, like home, rough and shining. She was speaking, about business, only business, she hadn’t said a word about May, nothing of Rockefeller, of fleeing back to the states for years and then reappearing like a ghost in the rearview mirror. It was strange for that to have irked me, as it was usually the only thing I ever wanted. Chances were, if someone wasn’t talking numbers, I didn’t want to hear them speak. 

“-Contacts for the export,” she continued, tapping her fingers on the bar, beside her empty drink. She was on her third, I was counting, wondering where in her petite body she was storing all the alcohol. “The coup won’t work if they know a woman’s name is on the papers, so the Rockefeller contracts will have to go to you once we start turning them. Which we ought to accomplish as quickly as possible, by the way.” 

“By any means necessary, eh?” I ask, slowly, because I’m curious. I take a sip of my drink, too. Funny that I know how many whiskeys deep she is, but haven’t the slightest clue for myself. It gets hard to keep track when you start at noon, on a good day. She pressed her lips together, bright red, I wonder briefly at how her lipstick is never smudged, although the dark makeup rimming her green eyes is slightly, like she had rubbed them accidentally. Perhaps she was tired, but she didn’t look it; sharp fingernails painted a shade two degrees from black tapped against the golden bar and I was thinking about them digging down my back when I remembered I actually wanted to be present for her response, which was rather late coming. I quirk an eyebrow at her, and she gives a tight little shrug with one delicate shoulder. 

“Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to,” she says, and I’m not sure what I expected but somehow I’m still a bit surprised. Surprised at how easily it came to her, how competent she was at it. The life. Like she had been to war too. She doesn’t ask if that was what I wanted to hear, if it was what she was supposed to say, probably because she doesn’t care. 

“What about Rockefeller?” I ask, because getting permission to put a bullet in his head would make my fucking night. Again, Tessa hesitates. 

“I don’t know,” she says, irritation floods through me and I subdue it by taking another drink. You steal, quite literally fucking _steal,_ a bloke’s fiance and hold her hostage for three years, you deserve a shotgun blast to the head. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bible, somewhere. 

It wasn’t dire, what we were discussing, wasn’t immediately imperative, wasn’t anything I wouldn’t go over later, in the meeting. The meeting that should have been currently taking place, but it was Friday night, the pub was bustling, and she was the only thing that had ever been interesting enough to make everything else stop. She says something else, about Alfie’s support, then she glances at me, almost apologetic as if she knows, and tells me, “If we want a takeover, we should at least try to avoid making it a hostile one.”

I hum in ambivalent response, because as much as I would prefer diplomacy for the sake of finance, I very much doubt that will be the case. I’d have better luck negotiating with the Irish than a man whose wife murdered his brother, no matter me own personal preferences on the matter. 

“You know, if I was him,” I say, my drink is almost gone again even though I was certain I’d just gotten it refilled, and I’m hit with a strange desire to be in the private snug with her, to put a door between her and I and the rest of everything, “I’d already be in the city. Looking for you.” The words land like iron into tilled dirt, heavy and pressing. Tessa makes a rather disconcerted face she can’t seem to help before, 

“Would you?” she asks, her eyebrow quirking slightly, teasing, serious, the serious takes over after she signals for another drink. She turns to me, her pull so strong I nearly reach my arm across to drape over the back of her chair. “Did you?” she questions, softly, storming eyes dark and wide. She smells like springtime in the country. 

“No,” I say, wondering what she’ll think of the truth, and I expect her to pull back, to shy away. She pulls her lip between her teeth, the press of them turning the red to white, blood on roses on the dancefloor. She doesn’t speak, gives a little nod, as if in acceptance. The barkeep comes to refill her glass, I want to shoo him away as he glances between us, like he isn’t sure where to look. Eventually he leaves, and I’m thinking that she’s gone again, taking her time to replace her armor. She never did that, before, not with me. 

“Did you want to?” She asks, finally, turning to me as she says it like she had come to a decision to do so. There it was. Shimmering between us like the reflections off the empty glasses. I blink, take my time. She is beautiful, and too smart to be so open, and I shouldn’t tell her. Wouldn’t tell anyone else. 

“Rockefeller dies,” I say, instead, cursing myself a bit. Tessa rolls her eyes, doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look particularly upset about it, either, which is both good and bad. Good because it means she doesn’t care for him, bad because it might mean she doesn’t care for me, and for some reason that possibility makes me speak again before I mean to. 

“I heard the shot,” I’m saying, slowly because it’s washing me, the memory, and I’m swimming against the flood, her on the floor, the empty pit in my stomach as I glimpse her, “That night. Saw you on the ground, just fucking… gone still. And you know what I did, Tessa?” I can see her in my mind, hair splayed out, for a second I had thought it was blood. There's a silently mouthed “ _No,”_ in response from her parted lips, a faint shake of her head at the use of her name, like honey on my tongue, her brow furrowed and apprehensive, and she should be, she should be, 

“I fuckin’ prayed,” I tell her, and there are people all around us, but I can’t see them, can’t see anything but her. She blinks once, twice. Can’t seem to find anything to say, which I don’t blame her for. It’s a funny thing, praying to a god you don’t believe in. It’s funny in the way sheer desperation makes hypocrites of us all, makes us beg and plead for something we desire so deeply we would ask anyone, anything, would sell our soul and shed our truths for it. The denial of a denial, the forsaking of disbelief. I turned and saw her on the floor through a red haze and I thought, _Please, God,_ she was prone and bleeding on the ground and everything was stuck and frozen, the whole world waiting on bated breath to see if she would still have her own, for the gods to weigh the libra scales, for her to regain consciousness, science or myth, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that when she opened her eyes, I was given a miracle. 

“Should’ve directed your call a bit lower,” she manages eventually, “I’m starting to think God’s got it out for me.” 

“Why did you leave, Tess?” I ask, it's all I can do not to reach out and touch her face because it falls like a tear, stare dropping to the ground. 

“I had to,” she says, and it isn’t enough. 

“And that’s it, is it?” _Otherwise, would you have stayed? Otherwise, in another life,_ the closest thing I could get to another chance. 

“That’s it,” she nods, she’s barely, nearly smiling. 

“Sure it didn’t have fucking _anything_ to do with the private plane, Mrs. Rockefeller?” I quip, and she laughs, bright and warm as sunlight. 

“Well, considering you rebuilt my fucking house…,” she’s still smirking, her lips look so soft and I’m trying to remember what they felt like, “Congratulations, Mr. Shelby, I believe you are now _officially_ the highest bidder,” she says with a slightly mocking air, and I scoff a laugh at her before I can help it out of sheer incredulity. You shoot any other girl on earth, you’d never see them again, they’d run away from you as fast as they could in the farthest direction. Not Tessa Reilly. Hardly a potato, but a diamond, maybe. Things you can break and still get to keep. So the bullet, maybe, she was mad enough. But the outcome was tangible to me, it sat at the foot of my bed at night, and there was no explanation for forgiveness for that. Not even from her. So May was right, and in one way or another, she was playing me. And it was too bloody late, and suddenly everything is crashing back in. I stand from the half-backed chair, the legs squeaking against the floor. 

“We’re late for a meeting,” I tell her, and don’t check behind me to see if she’s kept up, because I can already hear the click of her heels and of fucking course she has _._

May is waiting for me at a table with Polly, sipping her gin and looking regal. I had, admittedly, forgotten entirely about my promise to speak to her, between the whisky and Churchill and Rockefeller and the redhead at my shoulder whose expression I can’t see and know better than to check, but I cover it by speaking before she’s even noticed our approach. 

“Come on, then,” I tell May, ticking my fingers, she widens her chocolate eyes at me slightly and Tessa slides into the booth beside Polly without a word. Polly catches my eye and gives me a warning expression, which I ignore. She can never really stop parenting us. May rises gracefully and follows as I lead her to the snug, several pairs of eyes following our movements, furtive like peeking through a fence. May settles dainty into a wooden chair across the table, crossing her knees and hands. 

“So, is it my turn now?” she asks, looking pointedly past the frosted windows to the room we had just left, where Tessa was seated, and I reply, 

“Yes, well, you were next in queue,” in a dry tone, realizing after doing so that it was the wrong thing to say, that I was still thinking of her as well, thinking of her laugh, of how to make her do it again. May pushes her lips together, and I clear my throat. “My family has important matters to discuss. What do you need, May?” I ask, and she takes a steadying breath, blows it out slowly. 

“A father,” she says, “for our child.” 

And everything seems to go very still. 

  
  
  
  
T.R

I might as well not have gone to the meeting, because I only stared blankly at him the entire bloody time, watching the movement of his hands as he gestures, waving his cigarette like a conductor’s smoking batton, hearing, over and over in my mind, his words: _I fuckin’ prayed_. I jump when I hear my name sprinkled in his words, but none of the Shelby’s seem to find it odd; they’ve all reimmersed me into their midst like a lost cousin, like I was Michael come back from an overseas business trip. Loyalty was one thing money couldn’t buy, and I liked the Shelby’s for it more than any Toft I had ever met. It wasn’t something I often considered, how different my upbringing was from them, because it had never felt that way. Especially now that their fortune nearly rivaled my own, Rockefeller coffers included. Polly’s dripping earrings flashed, Tommy spoke, quick and deep, like the rumble of a passing engine. John and Arthur were listening with more attention than I would have thought possible from them, but they were soldiers, too, after all. Michael nodded along with his eternally serious expression, brow slightly furrowed. Tommy’s closing statement was a rather brisk, 

“Get your fucking tasks done, get them done fast, we’ve got enemies flanking us on all sides and the only way to beat them is to be three steps ahead,” and then he puts out his cigarette with a degree of finality in the ashtray on the table in the private room. Something about lying to him makes me crave the bitter white powder, fear or guilt, I’m not sure. Cowardice. The family is clearing out as I’m thinking, trapped inside my own thoughts and staring sightlessly at a spot on the painted wall, dreaming of a snowfall. And then, suddenly, we’re alone, and I notice this and then, immediately after doing so, realize I am rather drunker than I had intended to get and that my heart is beating much more quickly than it should have been for the amount of effort I was exerting, to do nothing but sit there across from him. And stare at him. I’m staring at him again as I notice, ever so faintly, that he’s slightly thrown, barely off his mark as he selects a cigarette from the glinting silver case. He takes a little too long to look up at me. And the real clue, which is that he’s still there, like maybe he wants to say something. 

“You alright?” I ask, trying to remember what a normal person would do, in a normal situation, as if that will calm down the frantic twiddling of my fingers. 

“Smoke?” He says in return, predictably. I nod, probably a bit too enthusiastically, and catch a glimpse of something glint in the frost of his eyes as he holds out the cigarette, and I have to lean forward in my chair to reach it, of course, the buzz of the brush of our fingers as he passes it to me across the table like I’ve already taken a hit and I’m desperately pleading that he isn’t there to interrogate me because I’m not sure I’m in a fit state to tolerate it and whatever was going on already felt like torture anyway. I expect him to take out another cigarette, but he doesn’t, comes closer to light mine and then reaches his hand to share it. I’m careful not to show my surprise, wary at his tactics, but I can’t read him to save my life, even literally. He hands me the cigarette back, the smoke dissipating into the air filled with the slightly dimmed roar of voices, our fingers touch again. Tommy, quite suddenly, reaches out for the bottle that Arthur left abandoned on the table, half of the contents already gone, and takes a pull. My eyebrows raise, he has another, and another, drops his head into his hands that are still holding the bottle’s neck like he wants to strangle it. His head is shaking, I’m certain, now, that somehow, something has happened, has transpired or developed or changed, he says, 

“Fuck,” softly and looks up at me and all of a sudden he’s looked up from the floor into my eyes and I’m thinking dangerous thoughts with no warning, thoughts full of hope, encouraged by the whisky and the sweeping blink of his heavy lids and dark eyelashes, the liquor is whispering _Maybe he feels the same_ and _Maybe this is it,_ I’m moving closer to him and the room is spinning a bit but he doesn’t shy back, too proud and too composed to ever give up ground. I’m trying very hard to keep still, like a child under the watchful schoolteacher’s eye. Then I’m reaching out, despite myself, because for one moment I lost my grip on the repercussions and all of my efforts go flying out of my lungs with the breath he releases as I glide my thumb along the line of his jaw, cleanly shaved but still barely rough under the pads of my fingers. 

“You don’t want to talk about it, then?” I ask him, the jaw flexes as his only reply, I feel the muscles clench under my hand, for a moment I think he’s blinking but his eyes stay closed, he gives no affirmation, which is as good as one, and I fall silent, now tracing the carved line of his cheek. 

“No,” he grinds out through his clenched teeth, shakes his head twice, fast, like he’s trying to dislodge something rattled in his brain. He sighs, stiffly, runs a hand through the fluttery top of his hair. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so agitated, he drops his hand onto his knee with a faint sound of impact and I’m trying to force myself not to pester him because I know for a fact it would likely do as much good as shout at the wall. And I want to ask him if it’s about me, or May, or if I’m way off the mark, want to feed him the same line Rose used on me, _There’s other things to do than talk,_ but even through my fuzzy mind I recognize that as a bad bet and focus on the cigarette instead, the gentle crackle of it as I inhale, breathe the smoke back up through my nostrils, watch Tommy watching me. 

“Michael teach you that?” he asks in a bored tone, which is how I know the idea bothers him. It bothering him should bother _me,_ the toy he was jealous of another boy playing with, but instead it makes me smile a little. 

“Maybe I’m just good with my tongue,” I say, coyly, clicking it as punctuation, Tommy actually laughs a little, rolling his cornflower eyes away, scoffing, and then he turns back to me and we’re both tilting forward and the initiation is blurry but our lips meet in the middle and we’re kissing before I realize it’s happening, soft and gentle, mouths barely parted, only for a moment, before Tommy yanks back like a fish pulled out of water and I follow him, tripping on apologies and mortification, but he’s speaking almost before I’ve reopened by eyes, my veins thrumming and skin tingling as if the touch remained. 

“May’s pregnant,” he says, baldly, deep voice even and unaffected, and now I feel like the fish on a hook, brought in to her death by a lure, I think now my guts are being ripped out- and then it hits me, and I say, 

“Oh,” immediately followed by “Oh, bloody fuck,” aloud. Tommy raises dark eyebrows slightly, and then I say, “Fuck,” again, because now everything everything everything is _fucked,_

“ _Fuck fuck fuck,_ ” I’m standing and turning as I chant the word under my breath, now Tommy’s brow is furrowed, evidently, this is not how he expected me to respond, but I’m so thrown I can’t seem to manage myself.

“I- er- I’ve got to go,” I’m telling him, because I really, really do, I have to get out of his presence that instant because I’m so _fucked._

“Tess-,” he’s saying, standing now, too, arm outstretched to halt me. 

“Phone when you find out about the, um, the people you need to reach,” I’m pulling on my coat so frantically my fist gets stuck in the sleeve. “Sorry about… ah... that,” I mumble, vaguely, waving a hand, I’m rambling now and he’s watching me with an absolutely bewildered expression, “Good luck with… everything?” I stall, end with a feeble, “Right, I’m going now,” and try to push past him out the door, but he holds his palm flat against it, looking at me as if worried I’m having a stroke, as if _he_ wasn’t the one acting strangely to begin with, and I’m still thinking _Fucking fuck fuck fuck_ while he’s asking me if I even have a way home, and I realize I don’t, I was meant to go to Polly’s for the night but suddenly realize I absolutely have to see Benson, have to talk to him, have to tell him I’ve fucked everything up. 

“Shouldn’t trust taxis in these parts,” Tommy’s telling me, I might have nodded slightly. He’s gotten me the rest of the way into my coat, somehow, too, I must be in some kind of shock because I’ve allowed him to lead me past the door into the rest of the pub without realizing it. His hand is on my back, I’m wondering if he plans to drive me all the way to London himself, wondering if May is still here, gazing out at the slightly-emptied pub, when the bartender comes hurrying up to us, says, 

“Sir, something’s happened,” in a way that I know means nothing good and I’m thinking _Christ, what fucking else?_


	17. This Is Our Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna make you understand this pain  
> Time keeps slipping, hours turn to days  
> Does the sight of a grave make you feel all alone?  
> Well alright, well okay, face your fear, the unknown  
> What's it like to be brave when the tears start to flow?  
> I've seen worse, I've seen worse, I've seen worse, I've seen worse! 
> 
> This is our life  
> This is when no one else will listen to you  
> This is our life  
> This is when everyone is vicious to you

_BIRMINGHAM_

  
  
  


“Victoria Franklin is dead,” Tommy muttered, half under his breath, half a curse. Arthur and John locked eyes, and Tommy answered their unspoken question by biting out one word, “Irish.” 

Arthur’s teeth clenched so tightly in his head they ground together like stones. Irish business was bad business, their father had taught them that. He had a stinging flash of regret over the snow Linda had made him pour down the sink, glancing momentarily at Tessa and wondering if she might be thinking along the same white lines. She looked like she could bloody use some right then. Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look so… she looked like she had gotten kicked hard in the shins by a steel-toed boot, actually, like she might be sick or might be petrified. That, for some reason, was what made his stomach drop suddenly. Tessa had a spine like a steel rod; despite how brightly her fire crackled, she was not a flimsy woman built on frail, posturing anger. At first, it had bemused Arthur’s ears off, the fact the one person, aside from maybe Alfie Solomons, that Tommy would allow any level of disobedience from had wrists like toothpicks. There was still a level of satisfying irony to it, but Arthur saw it now, as he had seen it in Tessa’s face during Colindale. In his head, Arthur called it Colindale, same as they titled other battles; Gallipoli, Flanders, the Somme. He supposed, now that the Irish had declared war, there was likely a terrifyingly high chance of him adding _Birmingham_ to the list. Tommy strode away from their little circle the moment he had relayed the clipped news, gathered Polly from where she was sitting at a table with Mrs. Carleton. Intermixed with the mild panic, Arthur was stuck wondering what the fuck his brother thought he was doing, trying to juggle two such women. Not the kind of girl to get tossed blindly to the side, either of ‘em. Boded poorly for Tommy, Arthur thought, and would probably result in some sticky situations, as if they needed more of those. He seemed to be proven right as Tessa’s face whitened, if possible, even further, once she spotted May’s continued presence. Tommy was speaking quietly in Polly’s ear, not even sparing May a glance, which she gave no reaction to other than a blink and sip of gin and ice. Then Tommy was leading Polly back over, all purpose and sharp suit, and they gathered in a possy like an Indian campfire, taking up most of the walkway between the bar and the tables. No one tried to pass them. No one even moved from their seat, and Arthur saw Tommy cataloging this, as he said very quietly, 

“Someone go get fucking Michael,” who had vanished half an hour previously with Isiah. Most likely to get some tail, Arthur would’ve wagered, but he wouldn’t have admitted that to Polly with one hand on the Bible. He tried not to imagine how Linda would feel about that. About any of it. He knew what a death of a member meant to Tommy, knew it from the cold gleam in his eyes. Knew what it meant for all of them. John peeled away like an orange, strutting through the crowd that parted respectfully before him, past the swinging doors. 

“What’do we do, Tom?” Arthur blurted, and Tommy pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, briefly. 

“Negotiate,” he answered, which, for Tommy, meant lying about a truce and blowing the enemy’s white flag into the sky while their guard was down. Mercy was a concept Tommy reserved for horses alone, and, occasionally, rich little Americans. His burning blue eyes swept over Tessa, who swayed slightly on the spot. “Get her home,” he told Arthur without looking at him, as if London weren’t a full fucking trip, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to mind, the way she looked like a stiff breeze might blow her over. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and to his rather great surprise, Tessa allowed him to loop an arm over her shoulders and steer her from the pub, mutterings breaking out after their exit like ripples in a stream. She didn’t speak, which isn’t all that unusual, he noticed she went quiet sometimes and it didn’t bother him none. But she was still pale as a sheet, and he saw that she had swiped a bottle from the table as they left and was clutching its neck like her hands were a noose. The night was cool and calm as he helped her into the motorcar, and that, at least, he expected at least a jibe about, but still, nothing was forthcoming. It was not until he had slid into the driver’s seat beside her and glanced over, however, that he began to grow rather concerned. 

“‘Ey, Tessie,” he said, mostly to get her attention, and her glazed eyes snapped back to focus and onto his before he had to look back at the road, she looked like an animal caught in the light of a torch. “You alright, there?” 

“Sure,” she answered, with enough lack of emotion that her statement fell as flat as her tone. Arthur cleared his throat, trying to come up with what Linda would want him to say. He was truly shit at quoting passages. 

“Did ya,” he cleared his throat again, like his words were trapped in it and that would help them escape, “did ya know her well, then, is that it?” 

“Know who well?” Tessa asked, detached, then, as he pulled a face as confused as hers, she hastily followed, “Oh. Victoria. No, not at all.” 

Arthur nodded, the tenement halls past the car’s windows dark and quiet. “Wouldn’t have imagined you’d take that news too hard, you know, what with her and Tommy…,” he trailed off somewhat awkwardly, had to stop himself from clearing his throat for a third time. Tessa had a warning look on her face that was too weak to really deter him. “Worried ‘bout the Irish? That it? Cause you know, Tommy’d chuck himself front of a train ‘fore he let anything bad happen to you-,” 

She cut off his words with, “Arthur, I’m begging you, I can’t bear to even hear his name right now,” and Arthur furrowed his brows, said, 

“Oh. Right,” and there were another couple beats of strained silence before he caved. “Right, so-,” he said, haltingly, “so it is Tommy, then. He say somethin’ to you? Cause I’ll have a word with him, right, about tryna’ stick his fucking cock in two places at once-,”

“Arthur!” Tessa interjected, again, exasperated, 

“Mmph, yeah,” he nodded in defeat, waving her off, the tyres bumping over cobbles. Tessa was still for a moment, then tipped forwards like a water pail, head in her hands. She mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch, then proper shouted, 

“God, I am so _fucked!”_ at the floor past her knees. Arthur was concerned, but also at a complete loss, because he couldn’t well figure out what he ought to do if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do something about. 

“You and him back to- you know-,” Arthur tossed her an expression that was meant to be suggestive but ended up being something closer to apologetic, and she widened her almond eyes at him slightly. 

“Can you speed up?” She asked, and he was confused before she continued with, “I want to make sure when I jump out it’ll actually kill me and not just really fucking hurt,” which took him by surprise but made him laugh once he caught her disparaging tone. He glanced at her again, lit up by the passing streetlamps. 

“He'll come ‘round,” Arthur said, confidently, Tessa gave a smile that was more like a grimace. 

“What would the people think if they knew the terrifying Arthur Shelby had gone soft?” she teased, softly, and he huffed. 

“No Toft is comin’ in and replacing our Tessie. Not on my watch,” he said, and this time the smile she gave him was real, if a bit watery. “‘sides, I’m a changed man.” 

Tessa’s eyes fell to the bottle in her hands, woozily. 

“Yeah,” she muttered, “Aren’t we all.” She blinked slowly, squeezing her eyes, then, “Do you happen to have any snow?” 

  
  
  


_THE GARRISON_

  
  
  


“What do you want me to do, Tommy?” Michael asked, he kept his voice perfectly even, and Tommy took it in, still as a statue, calm as reflective water. 

“Call the troops,” he said, and knocked back the last drink of whisky before slamming the glass back onto the counter. He turned from the bar, which was nearly empty now, stragglers quiet in their corners. Tommy made for the door, shoulders set and square, and threw, “Leave Alfie to Tessa!” Over his shoulder, ignoring Michael’s responding query of how Tessa, of all people, was meant to get Alfie Solomons on their side. 

  
  
  
  


_WILTSHIRE_

  
  
  


She was staggering by the time she got through the foyer of the manor, and she knew it, but she waved off Arthur’s attempts to assist her, near slammed the front door in his well-intentioned face to top it off. The staircase looked like it was moving a bit, she couldn’t gether knees to stop wobbling. The bottle she had swiped from the pub was sloshing around emptily, she had told herself she could handle it, she would handle it, the liquor and the constant crashing of the ground beneath her feet, but now as the marble really seemed to sway under her she thought _I was wrong I was wrong I was wrong._

She thought she was calling for Benson, she meant to, anyway. But the footsteps that approached from the top of the staircase were lighter, softer, and carrying with them the personification of a frown. Emmy’s arms were crossed, Tessa had to lean woozily backwards against the reassuring oak of the door and tilt her head back to see her, standing above like a disapproving deity. 

“You’re not Benson,” Tessa said, cleverly. Emmaline shushed her as she descended the stairs, which made Tessa glower. 

“You’ll wake Stella,” Emmy reminded, reprimanded, Tessa smoothed out her face and tried not to slink down to the floor, she had forgotten, forgotten about her _daughter,_ forgotten about Tommy’s- 

“You’re sloshed again, aren’t you?” Emmy was asking, Tessa’s scowl returned and now she could feel a bite to it, _when did I become so like him,_ she wondered, _when did I become the monster?_ Emmy was speaking again, but Tessa couldn’t hear her and did not much want to. 

“Where is Ben?” she was asking, she could feel she was asking, she could feel her numb lips moving. She had wanted it gone, all of it, but the whisky was washing over her and washing it all over her, 

“He had a date. Hasn’t come home. Wonderful example the two of you set for a child,” Emmy sniffed, Tessa felt a snap like a string. 

“At least I can protect her myself,” she snapped, Emmy recoiled like she had been struck. 

“Interesting claim for a woman searching for her bodyguard,” Emmy retorted, brown curls catching the moonlight. They had once been bouncy, shiny, tight curls, beautiful curls. Now they were stringy and lifeless. It cooled the edge of Tessa’s anger, and she held on to it, to the mercy, because she was armed, she was always armed, and she didn’t trust herself. 

“I don’t need a bodyguard to do my dirty work for me, Emmy,” she said, pointedly, it was meant to be pointed, anyway, but the walls, the walls were spinning like a top, “I don’t need protection.” 

“Then what are we doing here!?” Emmy demanded, there was a silence between them because Tessa had no retort, she was right, she was right, _I am terrified._

“A woman was killed tonight,” she said, “She wasn’t innocent, but she didn’t deserve it.” 

Emmy was quiet, still, a mouse caught in a trap. But she stood, and listened. 

“They’re coming for us,” Tessa said, her head swirled and swirled, and whispered, “They’re all coming for us.” She saw black masks and fire and Richard’s impassive face, then she saw Stella laughing in her mind for a shining, flashing moment, then continued, stronger, “There’s a man in Birmingham who can help.” 

“A man.” Emmy repeated, dryly, then asked, “Who?” 

“Tommy Shelby,” Tessa said, and the weight it carried over her tongue was so heavy she could hardly get it out. “Her... Stella's father. Her real father." It was even harder to picture as it was to say, Tommy as a father, not just as a contribution to Stella's genetics but as the concept itself. _Her real father_ , she had said, but she wondered if he ever could be, minefield situation aside. She wondered if he could learn to love something that didn't know how to protect itself from him. 

Emmy was still frozen, even the pink of her nightgown seemed more muted, but maybe that was the darkness, maybe it was the whisky. Tessa waited, clinging to the brass handle. 

“I _thought_ those eyes looked familiar, somehow,” Emmy said, eventually, and at that, Tessa gave in and let her knees lock, resting on the cold stone floor. 

“I envy Atlas for the load he carried,” she said, _I am a juggler tossing stars._ She heard a rustle, realized her eyes had closed. Emmy’s touch was soft on her shoulder. 

“Come on,” she was saying, just a voice, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

  
  
  


_BIRMINGHAM_

  
  
  


“Awful late, Mr. Shelby,” Benson said, unconcernedly. Tommy had always liked that about him, had always admired his posture. God bloody knew Arthur could use some of it. Benson leaned a shoulder against a steel railing, withholding comment on the odd choice of meeting place, the skeletons of a hotel Tommy was mostly funding. It wasn’t the placeholder for the largest industrial venture he had ever attempted, but with Shelby Motors skyrocketing through the booming stock market at a rate he knew couldn’t possibly sustain, he was focusing on transferring investments from goods to services. Well, excluding Rockefeller oil, which he planned on ending up with a veritable ocean of. He had Tessa to thank for that. From a purely economic standpoint, her marriage to the Yankee cunt was the most potentially lucrative outcome possible from Colindale, and Tessa herself was turning out to be his strongest advantage. If he had ever cared much at all that she had subcontracted his men without permission, which was debatable, her usefulness since completely outweighed it. He realized he was thinking about business again, to the exclusion of all else, because it was nearly always the better option. Still, he braced a cigarette between his lips as he lit it, forced himself back into the present, and then said, 

“What’re you doing in Birmingham?” 

“I don’t think I have to tell you that,” Benson said, carefully like he was treading around grenades, and Tommy ticked his eyebrows in apathetic agreement. There was a stretchy pause as they both sized each other up, their new positions, the other’s intentions and sincerity. Apparently, Tommy passed the visual test, because Benson said, 

“I was on a date,” in a carefully measured tone. His face was hidden by the shadows of his cap. Tommy nodded, took a drag. 

“How was he?” he asked, evenly, and Benson started forwards suddenly, like a flinch. Tommy did not. Benson was taller, but Tommy was faster, so he stayed still until the last moment, the strike never came, even as gunmetal flashed under Benson’s suit. Tommy eyed him cooly. 

“You know?” Benson asked, gruffly. He kept his arm raised, his fingers ready. Tommy blinked. “How?”

“Paid attention,” he responded, carefully, then ducked his chin. Admittedly wryly, “And it was in the file my sister gave me when I asked her to look into you. Before I assigned you to Tessa.” 

“Is that why you did it?” Benson asked, casually, like his hand wasn’t on his weapon. Above them, stars twinkled briefly through foggy clouds. They were far enough along the outskirts of the city that some managed to peek through. Usually, they were covered by the thick layer of smog. “I’ve always wondered.” Tommy scoffed, quietly. 

“Have you seen her?” He asked, _can you blame me?_

“Not really my type, but I suppose that was the point,” Benson answered, and Tommy nodded slightly, judging him. Even as a boat rudder, Benson was, even while he asked, “Is this blackmail, then?” 

Tommy let the quiet sink in, let the possibility stew in the air between them, then shook his head, slowly, and said, “Not blackmail. Opportunity.” A lone bird called from somewhere above them in the rafters, mournful and sad. Tommy thought about sitting in the bones of Addison manor like he was waiting for her to return, like a bird that had flown away. “Lots of money to be made, Eustace.”

“I’m not bloody spying on her for you,” Benson replied firmly after a few moments of calculating silence, “And it’s ‘Benson’.” Tommy trusted the cover of velvety night to hide to the roll of his eyes. 

“I’m not asking you to spy on her,” he said, unaffected, working his jaw slightly. “I’m aware of where your allegiance lies.” Benson had helped Tessa run. Had kept her from him. Tommy felt a brief moment of recalculation of his decision, but Benson said, 

“Then what are you asking?” 

And Tommy pulled the folded cap from his pocket, tossed it to him through the dark. Benson caught it carefully, as if he already knew what it was. In the dim moonlight, the razor edge glinted like the flash of animal’s eyes. A car rumbled by in the distance. 

“I thought we had established that I work for Tessa,” Benson said, finally, lifting the cap, making to throw it back. Tommy stood still. 

“Who works for me,” Tommy countered, laced his fingers together in front of him, cocked his head. “And who is in very real danger.” 

Benson gave a humorless chuckle. “Have you considered how those things might be connected?” he asked, pointedly, Victoria’s face flashed through Tommy’s mind, pale and blue in death. Tommy didn’t respond, and Benson shook his head. “So that’s what this is about, then? Keeping her safe?” 

Tommy’s cigarette was dry and rough against the heavy weight of the cool night air, the same way the truth felt on his tongue. “That’s what everything is about,” he replied. “Always has been.” 

“You’ve an interesting way of showing it, mate,” Benson bit, clipped. Tommy sighed, shortly. He knew what the other man was on about. Fucking Colindale. 

“I didn’t want her fighting,” he said, “I thought it would stop her, I was wrong. Satisfied?”

Through the darkness, he saw Benson’s brow rise slightly in surprise. His posture was still stony, but somehow, Tommy could tell he believed him. He turned, pointed a finger in the air in warning. 

“Don’t put on the cap till you’ve cut your hair,” Tommy said, and didn’t wait to hear a reply before he turned and strode away. 

  
  
  
  


_CHATSWORTH_

  
  
  


“Come in,” May said, quite generously, especially considering the way Tessa had greeted her when their circumstances had been reversed. The drawing room was cavernously extravagant, with a mantle on each end and endless space between. It was glamorously decorated, not ostentatious, but enough to make you want to savor it, like fine food. Tessa did not. She nodded a ‘Thank you’ to the maid who had escorted her and crossed the room, keeping her steps even and her gaze critical. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” she asked, directly, skipping the simpering pleasantries. May raised her dark eyebrows slightly, but did not stumble on her brusqueness. 

“Yes,” she said, smoothing out the skirt of her dress where she perched on an ottoman, “Sit, please,” she offered, Tessa only did because her head was pounding like a drum. It was a very real possibility that she was still a bit drunk, but she was dreading the sickness seeping in even as the muted spinning receded. 

“Tea?” May asked, Tessa lifted an ambivalent shoulder. 

“Sure,” she replied, and May signaled a maid who was standing with her hands laced behind her back. Tessa had expected May to send her away the moment she entered the room. She had forgotten that it was not usually so strange to have your conversation listened in on. That she was still, in some ways, somehow, not a part of her own, privileged world. The maid actually curtsied before she turned, Tessa fought to not make a face and took out her cigarette case to distract herself. 

“So. You’re pregnant, then?” she asked, holding the smoke between her fingers and against her lips to light it. They always smelled a little like him, all fire did. 

“Apparently so,” May answered, evenly, southern accent tempered by charm and class and posture. “Tommy told you, I suppose?” She asked, unconcernedly, but not meeting Tessa’s eyes. 

“Yes,” Tessa confirmed, shamelessly, ruefully, “Yes, he did.”

“He seems to tell you everything,” May began, Tessa could feel the jab coming like watching the pointy end of an approaching spear, “Pity it does not seem to be true the other way around.” 

“Could say the same to you,” Tessa countered, Stella’s name was the elephant between them and the room seemed to hush very suddenly for a moment before the maid returned quietly, holding a tray set for tea, delicate cucumber sandwiches and little finger cakes included. She set it down gently on the polished table between them, like she was trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible. Tessa felt her stomach roil at the thought of attempting to consume solid food. May waited until the maid had departed again, Tessa took another drag of her cigarette and mindlessly watched her walk back out the door. The room was so large that this seemed to take quite a long time, but finally it closed behind her, and May spoke again without skipping a beat. 

“And about what it was that happened last night at the Garrison?” She questioned, “Did he let you in on that excitement as well?” Tessa was hardly shocked that Tommy had kept it from her, but knew what it was like to be the one who never got to hear about Tommy’s plans, Tommy’s secrets, what it was like to be locked outside of his mind. He didn’t often lie, he just rarely told the truth. 

“A woman was killed. She was a member of our… organization. Tommy said IRA.” Tessa relayed the information in a clipped tone, because she needed May to know. Wanted her to. May selected a saucer without so much as a quiver. 

“ _Our_ organization,” she repeated, softly, sounding like Emmy from the night before, but lacking the moral superiority. Tessa was beginning to wonder if she had developed an unconscious stutter no one deemed fit to inform her of. She scoffed. 

“If you were confused about appropriate priorities regarding this situation, I can tell you that you ought to be more concerned about the news of a murder,” she advised, which May, unsurprisngly, did not seem to appreciate, as if she didn’t find Tessa the voice of authority for the correct placement of priorities. 

“People get murdered every day, all over the world,” May said, like she was trying to convince herself of it as much as Tessa. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” 

“But you’ve never done it,” Tessa stated, cocking her head. She knew. At some point, she realized she could tell just by looking at someone. What your hands do gets written in your eyes. 

“Done what?” May asked, taking a sip of her tea, her own dark irises lowered. 

“Killed someone,” Tessa said, the room swayed, and for the first time, the teacup clattered a bit against the table as May set it down, a slightly offended expression flickering on her face that she wasn’t quick enough to hide. 

“No, I’ve never _killed_ someone,” she deadpanned, like it was a ridiculous question, and perhaps it had been. Tessa sighed and looked into the dark fireplace, wishing, for a moment, to see flames. Wishing to be closer to them. “Does it... Can it… change you?” May asked, her melodious voice quiet, almost vulnerable. 

“Not if it’s your choice,” Tessa answered, carefully. She wasn’t sure if she was lying. Her head hurt. “If it was, the change is your choice too. If it wasn’t, well.” She saw Jack, spread-eagled, bleeding down his face onto her fingers and the worn rug on the floor as she checked for a pulse that wasn’t there. Tommy with blood dripping down his- “You can’t save him, you know,” Tessa said, to interrupt her own thoughts. “He won’t let you, no matter how hard you try.” 

“There’s goodness in him still,” May said, “And he’s...,” she cleared her throat softly, shook her head like she was trying to disperse a dark cloud around her, “he’s all I have.” 

“Is that why you’re lying?” Tessa replied, shrewd, but May’s head was still shaking slowly, back and forth. 

“I would be lying,” May said, “If I told you part of me didn’t wish I was.” Her words were calm, almost soothing, like she was trying to let Tessa down softly. As if there was any such thing when you were hanging from the sky. 

“Hmm,” Tessa mumbled, staring into the light amber depths of her untouched tea. Her head throbbed and stomach rolled like she was on the deck of a ship on a storming sea, and she thought, _Fuck it,_ and pulled a flask from her purse, undid the top, poured whisky into the fragile eggshell teacup until it was nearly overflowing. Her hands shook slightly, she hadn’t eaten, she hadn’t slept, May watched her movements with a face that was carefully blank. When Tessa took a sip, she quirked an eyebrow. 

“Hair of the dog?” she asked, and when Tessa only replied by taking another steadying drink, May leaned back against her hands, breaking her stiff posture. Tessa was trying to interpret this change in atmosphere and was therefore sorely thrown when May said,

“Is this all an act?” in an exceptionally aloof voice, which actually made Tessa’s lips part in confusion, which she seemed to notice, because she continued, now sounding genuinely intrigued. “Do you mimic him out of admiration?” 

“Excuse me?” Tessa asked, floored. “Do I fucking _what?”_

“Just curious,” May smiled, slightly, over the edge of her teacup. Tessa felt the anger bubbling again, like magma, stared at May and let the heat seep out. 

“You know, I used to be _so_ much like you,” Tessa said, she remembered herself running through the halls of a hospital, dragging Tommy by the hand, remembered herself thinking, while they fucked by the lake, that when Tommy said he was hers it was a promise, not a threat, he said _yours_ but now she heard _you. He will never let you go,_ Polly had said, and he hadn’t, wouldn’t, she loved him for the way his darkness sang to her own, pulled it out of her like shadows from the light, and there sat May, with her pinky lifted. “Well. More like you, anyway.” 

“What happened?” May asked, still removed, like she was barely in the room. 

“Tommy happened,” Tessa stated, flatly. 

“It sounds as if there are plenty of things to blame him for,” May replied, crossing her legs elegantly. “But we all make our own choices, after all.” 

“Yes,” Tessa agreed, “That's true.” She was writing a note in the same hospital, padding barefoot back down it’s halls, she was shooting a man in a penthouse in New York and now his face was blurry in her mind, looking at the house Tommy had built her and thinking of all the things just past her reach. “But you should know, if you’re looking for the truth about yourself in him, you might not like what you see.” 

“We’re different, you and I. Perhaps when I look at him, all I see is who he really is.” 

Tessa remembered red dripping down the line of Tommy’s jaw, saw him spitting out a chunk of a man’s throat onto the floor with a spray of blood. 

“No,” she told May, in her own ears, her voice was sad. “You don’t.” _And you could never love him for it._

  
  
  


_TWELVE HOURS EARLIER, THE GARRISON_

  
  
  


“You’re pregnant?” Tommy asked, dumbfounded. Not because it was altogether unlikely; he had been careful as he was with his whores, but it was hardly unheard of, hardly impossible. But because of the sheer irony of it, because he had just, moments ago while sat at the bar, made an irreversible decision, and all it had taken was a thing as simple as a laugh. 

“So it seems,” May said, and neither of them were moving at all, as if teetering on the precarious edge of a cliff, and Tommy didn’t know what lay below. The seconds ticked by, silent and still, the strains of the piano tricking in under the gap of the closed snug door. He dove. There was no use waiting. 

“Are you... sure?” he asked, it was cutting because his tongue was a knife he couldn't dull against his teeth, and May’s eyes narrowed like he had known they would. 

“The doctor seemed to be,” she retorted, he wanted a fucking drink and decided to have one, decided that this, of all times, he was allowed the excuse. There was a bottle of whisky on the table waiting to be opened, waiting to be passed around during the meeting. The cork popped with a bright little noise as he sat and poured into a glass, May’s reflection in her red dress warped through it as he lifted it and stared through its contents. “You don’t believe me,” May accused, and sounded like she couldn’t quite believe it herself. 

“Well, you _were_ just drinking gin,” Tommy reminded her, and May made an impressively scornful expression. 

“Sometimes, Thomas, people drink a strange thing called _water,”_ her voice dripped in defensive irony, “I know what a forigen concept that is to you.” 

“What do you want to do?”

That was it, the only real question there was. Silence stretched between them, May’s lip quivered, barely, so she pressed them together like a soldier dying for a lost cause. 

“You could have peace, Thomas,” she told him, earnestly, and that made it harder. “You could have peace if you weren’t in love with war.” 

“There’s no difference, May. Not anymore.” 

“There could be.”

“Not for me.” He met her eyes, pulled the trigger. Lizzie was right. It was time. “Not since the night I met her.”

“War, or Tessa?” May said, her tone snapping and like the Ripper’s jaw had around his forearm, too flat to be a question, and he had been wrong, that was it. That was the question they had been dancing around, not even a question, just the name, her name, and it was almost a relief to say it, because he _knew it knew it knew it_ like the beat of his heart. Tommy didn’t reply, but that did it, somehow. He shook his head. 

“No difference,” he said, again. That was the thing about hearts, they broke so easily. Fragile. Better off with a potato, or a diamond, May’s eyes fell and Tommy felt a stab of sympathy, he tried to reach for her and she tipped back against the booth. 

“May, listen to me, I care about you-,” It wasn’t enough, a ramp up to a weak, insulting placation at best, and they both knew it, so he stopped. 

“Would you be able to put that aside?” she asked, her gaze flickering up to his like hummingbird wings. “To put her aside?”

“You want to keep it,” Tommy stated, outright, a tear leaked down her rosy cheeks and she swiped at it angrily. 

“Yes,” May admitted, “But not if I have to raise it as Tommy Shelby’s bastard.” 

Tommy was silent for the good part of a minute, staring at her, for a while, and then a spot on the wood paneled wall slightly past her shoulder. 

“I’ll let you know what I decide,” he said, eventually. “You can tell my family to come in.” 

“And Tessa?” Her posh voice was smooth and lilting, composed. 

“You want to try to keep her out, be my guest,” he offered, even though he knew May was likely not only asking about the meeting, the recent admittance hung between them like the sun low in the sky, blinding them through the windshield as they drove forward into the unknown. May shook her head, looking shattered like a vase before his eyes and deeply disappointed, like the schoolteacher who had told him once that he was wasting his potential. Tommy had disagreed. 

“She’s going to break that stone heart of yours,” May said, not a curse but an oath. 

“She did,” Tommy nodded, if it was a confession, why did it burn like holy water on his tongue? “And somehow she still holds all the pieces.” He coughed, took a swig of whisky to wash it down, to wash the words back down his throat. _Things you can break and still keep._

“Well,” May said, still all logic, all restraint, “I suppose that should be a comfort to me.” A sad little chuckle escaped her. “At least you know how it feels.” 

“Yeah. ‘Cept I actually fucking deserved it,” Tommy replied, with another swallow. May was shaking her head again, sad again, turning her chin slowly. 

“That’s the worst part of it, Thomas,” she murmured, standing from the booth and touching his cheek gently, her fingers ghosting across his jaw. She locked eyes with him, brown on blue, then said, simply, “You don’t.” Before she left the snug with controlled motions, tossing her coat over her arm. 

  
  
  


_EIGHT HOURS EARLIER, WILTSHIRE_

  
  
  


Emmy’s arm was tight around her shoulders, but the pressure was dull and faint to her, her feet seemed to be stepping over the floor on their own accord as they travelled down the hall. 

Just as they reached the master suite and Emmy adjusted her grip slightly to nudge the double doors open with her hip, the telephone rang, so shrill in Tessa’s ears that for a moment she thought it was a siren, thought it was an ambulance, wondered if it was for her, but then Emmy snapped, 

“Who on God’s green earth is calling at this hour?” And Tessa gathered the mental facilities to teeter across the sitting area of the bedroom, past the center mantle of the fireplace, the balcony doors had been left open and the cool breeze of the night fluttered the wispy inner curtains of the windows and the phone rang like the seven trumpets. The receiver was rather heavier than she remembered it being. 

“Hello?” Tessa said, it could be anyone, it could be a threat, it could be, it could be-, 

“Hello, Tessa,” said the voice, it _was_ Edward, she had known, somehow she had just felt it like snowmelt, the drip of ice water onto her neck, raising goosebumps on her arms. “It’s been a while.” 

Her mouth was dry like she had been smoking grass alongside her pint of whisky. She couldn’t remember if she was armed, went to check and had to grip the edge of the desk that the telephone sat upon so as not to tip over. 

“What’s a few weeks to us, husband?” Tessa said, flippantly, she mostly managed the tone and the retort because of a stroke of inspiration that only someone who was so desperate to appear sober that they actually managed to out of sheer force of will could experience. “Remember the time you were in Paris four months? And I believe Moscow was longer still.” There was silence on the other end of the line, Tessa covered her mouth with her hand to cover the sharpness of her breaths. Emmy watched from the doorway, frozen. Tessa clawed the shaking edge off her voice before she spoke again. “It’s past three in the morning, Edward.” 

“Ah, yes,” he said, managing to sound both professionally apologetic and completely apathetic at once. “Time is such an unrelenting nuisance, don’t you think?” 

“Uhm,” Tessa said, _he is coming he is coming for you they are all coming for you_ her throat was tight and her breaths like she was sucking through a straw and she couldn’t bloody _think,_

“I suppose.” 

“Not particularly on top of your game tonight, are you?” Rockefeller asked, just barely taunting like he always was, just the lightest layer of scorn, the moment she slipped up. “Perhaps it has to do with the quality of the company one keeps.” 

“What is it that you want, exactly? Surely if felt the need to gloat you could enlist someone who still gets paid to listen to you,” Tessa demanded, her tipsy grip on the band in her mind was so loose, she wanted to bite the words back out of the air after she spoke them, wanted to slap herself in the face for poking sleeping lions. He only laughed, humorlessly. 

“A difficult question, desire. A subject tricky as time. I’ll tell you the easiest answer, for the latter’s sake: I want revenge, eventually.” Edward replied, his voice was just as she remembered it. He had always spoken like a president. 

“Eventually?” Tessa repeated, through her dry lips, she darted her tongue out to separate where they were sticking together. 

“As it turns out, Richard’s death left quite a vacuum in my company. Caused a bit of internal dissent. Put the competition at our necks, dropped our stocks. I told you what his exposure would lead to once, and such a public… _suicide_ was that same headache, a hundredfold.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Tessa asked. “Partial to well-informed corpses, are you?”

“I have no desire to kill you, Tessa,” Edward said, in the same tone he might have used to order a salad at dinner. “It would be a waste.” This, from the man who had just referred to his brother’s death as a _headache_. 

“Forgive me if I don’t take that as a compliment,” Tessa replied, Richard chuckled disparagingly. 

“It would be a waste of a _continent_ ,” he clarified. “Do you have any idea how much European territory your tinker gangster has his fingers in? In more than one way, I’m sure,” he added, the room swirled like she had been spinning with her arms out for five minutes straight, spinning with anger and fear fear _fear,_ “And the moment I snap my fingers, and he’s gone, well. I just told you what it is that happens when the knights fall. It’s time for the rule of kings, now. But like I said, by all means, enjoy your time by his side. While you can. Just remember… the five hours between us won’t be long enough for you to escape again.”

“Keep your eyes on the board, Mr. Rockefeller,” Tessa answered, the world was slipping and slipping and only the words were real, “The queen is coming out to play.” She fumbled the receiver slightly as she went to slam it down and had to give it a second try, Emmy’s hand closed over Tessa’s where she held onto the telephone in a tight grip, her face pale. 

  
  
  
  
  


_CHATSWORTH, TODAY_

  
  
  
  


“You haven’t told him,” Tessa prompted. “Why?” 

May lit a cigarette, took exactly two, delicate puffs, and crushed it out again. Tessa was on her third. Edward’s late night call was ringing in her ears like the telephone itself had. 

“I don’t have any reason to,” she said, her wispy brown curls rustling as she ran a hand over them. “And because I don’t want him to know.” 

Tessa took another drag, nodding. “And what would give you reason to?” she asked, and May’s smile only lifted one side of her mouth and didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Stay away from Tommy,” she said, pointedly. “Stay away from me. And stay away from our child, or I’ll tell him about yours. He won’t be happy. He especially won’t be happy hearing it from me.” 

Tessa gave a short scoff. _Everyone into the ring._ The room was cool, but sweat was gathering at the base of her neck, like atmosphere before a storm. “Maybe you should give him the same orders,” she cut, and May crossed her arms against her chest and shrugged. 

“He’s already agreed,” May said, like she was delivering a blow that would sting. It did, even while Tessa doubted the validity of it, but she locked May’s eyes and wiped her face clean, thinking of kissing him at the pub. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you,” she said, the implications clicked behind May’s eyes just as Tessa stood, swayed a bit, and gave a slight wave. 

“Have a nice rest of your day, Mrs. Carleton. I’ll show myself out.” 

  
  
  


_WILTSHIRE_

  
  
  
  


“Where have you _been?”_ Tessa accosted him the moment he strode through the doors. Then she winced at the volume of her own voice. Stella was perched at an easel facing her mother on the couch, Tessa had a book in her hands that Benson doubted she was reading. 

“Out, mother,” Benson said, with a slight grin that Tessa did not return. He sobered instantly, shrugging off his coat. “What happened?” 

Tessa sighed and dropped her copper head over the back of the sofa to see him. The waves of her hair spilled down the back of the elegant sofa in a bloody waterfall. “What fucking didn’t,” she muttered, closing her book with a sharp snap and making another pained face at the noise. He limped closer, trying to walk and remove his shoes simultaneously. Her skin was so colorless it looked nearly blue, combined with the poreless surface, glassy and cold, it glowed like a mirror, making the dark cast under her dark eyes darker. She took a deep breath, and began. 

“Victoria is dead,” she opened, bluntly, glancing slightly at Stella, who was clearly listening more to the record playing softly on the table beside her than she was to their conversation. Grown-up talk did not interest her much, yet. Benson wondered if it ever would, how she would end up feeling about the life she had been born in. “IRA retaliation for closing trade lines. As you know, Tommy has a complicated relationship with Winston Churchill. Also payback for Victoria switching loyalties.”

“Alright,” Benson said, wondering if he was meant to strum up some regret and finding he didn’t quite have the energy. The man he had met, Jack, had been young and a bit too eager. Unfortunate name, too. Benson had refused to call him by it point-blank. Surnames always seemed to be the better option, in his opinion. “Doesn’t affect us much, really. Is that it?” 

“What do you think?” Tessa bit, he could tell she was hungover from her mood alone. She started counting down on her fingers. “May is pregnant, it’s Tommy’s, she says I’m to stay away from him and that he’s agreed to do the same, but seeing as he snogged me at the pub I’m not sure he’s entirely on board with that idea. Because apparently he’s chosen _right now_ at this very bloody fucking moment to forgive me for the very _first_ of my transgressions, because of course he’s fucking done.”

“Er…,” Benson managed, but gratefully, Tessa didn’t seem to require a response, because she plowed on. 

“And, _”_ she continued, her voice a bit scratchy like she hadn’t slept, her arched eyebrows furrowed together, “fucking Edward called.” 

Benson froze while balancing on one leg to untie his stubborn shoe, like what he imagined a gangly trapeze artist would. 

“To threaten you or to make you listen to him jerk himself off?” he asked, and Tessa’s full lips twitched in a dry smirk. 

“Bit of both,” she said, Benson finally yanked off the dress shoe and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor. She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and he picked it up again with a slight grumble and sat next to her on the couch, hissing through his teeth at the news. 

“Busy night,” he commented, and she scoffed. 

“For you, too,” she returned, and then gave him an inquisitive look. “Did you... cut your hair?” 

He was still wearing his cap, intentionally. 

“Yeah, I-I suppose, kind of,” he said, but she reached up and whipped off the hat, took in the shaved sides of his head. The air of the room felt cold against his scalp, unfamiliar again. She was either impassive or furious, somehow, it was hard to tell. 

“What did he offer you?” she asked, flatly. 

“A lot of money, I hope,” Benson tried, but she was looking down at the hat, at the razor in the brim, and he was somehow unsure if she had even heard him before she said, 

“ _I_ give you a lot of money. You don’t care about money,” in the same, humorless voice. 

“We have similar objectives,” Benson said, evenly. 

“Which are?”

“Keeping you safe. Only on my end, it’s him I’m keeping you safe from.” He rubbed through the longer top of his new hair, mindlessly. “It’s good to have a man on the inside.”

She looked away, but he caught the glinting edge of her smile. “Tommy chose well when he placed you in my corner, didn’t he?” she asked, her heavy tone finally lifting somewhat. Benson shared a private joke with himself about that, because if only Tessa knew the real reason, that Tommy couldn’t handle another man so much as appreciating her ankles, but he said nothing of it aloud. “I think you deserve a raise.” 

“It’s my job,” Benson said, giving her a tentative smile that pulled at his temples. His head felt like to fall off, too. He felt about how Tessa looked. She rested her head against his shoulder, something she would only ever have been capable of while seated. 

“I don’t know what the fuck to do about any of this,” she said, midly, like she was pointing out the shape of a cloud. _Oh, that one looks like a dragon. Oh, that one looks like the fury of seven hells raining down on our door._

“Hear me out,” Benson said, steepling his hands in an overly professional manner, “why don’t we... go out on the lash and get absolutely pissed.”

Tessa’s smile widened to reveal her pearly teeth. And, to Benson’s very great surprise and relative dismay, a quiet voice in the hallway that most definitely did not belong to Stella asked, 

“May I come along?” and Emmy stepped hesitantly into the room. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont even have an excuse for my absence lmao life just fuckin sucks. hopefully this thicc bitch helped a bit <3


	18. Smoke Filled Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it a little late  
> Shouldn't you fly away?  
> Little dove with cigarettes  
> Show 'em that you can hold your breath
> 
> I heard about a girl  
> Buried her dolls and lost her curls  
> Painted on lipstick red  
> Grew herself up and then she'd
> 
> Walk into a smoke-filled room  
> Oh, no one could keep their eyes off you  
> Have a little drink or two  
> Oh, how could you be that girl I knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten this chapter like seven fuckingjfhfgkghf times and I never do that so just. here it is. just take it

LONDON

The taxi ride to the club was cramped and silent. Tessa, Benson, and Emmaline were wedged shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat, jolting into each other with every bump in the road. Emmaline looked slightly perkier tonight, a bare hint of color across her heart-shaped face. She had curled her hair again, too. And she was there. She was never there, she never asked. She hardly spoke. Tessa felt a sting of regret over not considering that what Emmy might need wasn’t space, but the opposite. It could be nice to have another girl to talk to again, even about vapid things. She hadn’t realized she had missed Emmy until parts of her seemed to return, but Tessa supposed she had more pressing matters on her mind, of late. Edward’s warnings blinked past her eyes as she was brought back into her same, terrifying cycle- there was fire, there was always fire, and Tessa took a swig from her flask, passing it wordlessly to Benson, who took a healthy swallow. To Tessa’s rather deep shock, Emmy stuck her hand out past Tessa’s chest. Her fingers had been bitten raw. 

“It’s impolite to skip turns,” she said, and Tessa smiled and Benson made an incredibly familiar face at her chastizement, thrusting the flask at her with a grumble that mimicked the engine beneath them. 

  
  
  


SOHO

The nightclub had booths made from plush, quilted black leather tucked away in alcoves, lining the walls on the edges of the open floor, the stone a deep ruby color that could only be discerned through the low light when lit by the tinkling chandeliers, which swayed slightly as footsteps passed above. The music wasn’t terribly loud, which Emmy was grateful for; something about the concept made her want to grit her teeth. The happy buzz of fear and freedom faded from her veins once they had reached one of the lavish tables and realized they had nothing to discuss within each other’s company. Tessa fingered the velvet of the tablecloth and Emmy pondered the establishment’s choice of material, surely it was impossible to keep clean, they must have just tossed them out regularly- when she interrupted her own thoughts and spoke, casting around for possible conversation. 

“So,” she said, to Tessa, who glanced up briefly over the shot she had been about to take, “Tell me about Tommy Shelby.” 

The effect was instantaneous, Tessa nearly choked on her drink. She and Benson were both on their third, not including the flask from the taxi ride, and Emmy was nursing her martini like it was a premature child because even the first few sips had sent her spinning. Benson smacked Tessa’s back with rather more force than was entirely necessary, smirking slightly. 

“You met him,” she said, with one of her offhand shrugs, “That night of the…,” it was strange, her eyes seemed to darken, “the Shelby Motors grand opening.” 

“I know I met him, that’s not what I meant,” Emmy explained, slowly. “Although,” she added, thoughtfully, “I was quite drunk. It took its toll, being on Richard’s arm all night, listening to him talk about the article he’d read on a study proving women to have genetically inferior intellects.” She took another sip of her drink. The initial sweetness of the grenadine did not cover the aftertaste, the trailing bite of the vodka. She had never spoken ill of Richard aloud before. Benson and Tessa were both staring at her a bit obviously, Benson’s face bemused, Tessa’s quite blank and dynamic in the shadows. “So I don’t really recall. Just blue eyes. You said Stella has his eyes.” 

Now it was Benson’s turn to almost spew his drink across the table.

“You _told_ her?” he blustered at Tessa. Emmy shrank back, at the same time, as if they had practiced it, Tessa leaned forward to lift a shot glass again. Her lips were plush and painted perfectly in her bleeding crimson and she bared them over her teeth for a split second in a hiss. 

“She didn’t,” Emmy said, in a moment of inspiration. “I figured it out on my own.” Tessa tossed her a grateful glance, and Benson made a face like he didn’t really believe her, but only grumbled slightly and knocked back his whiskey, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“What do you want to know about Tommy?” Tessa asked her, which seemed to surprise Benson even more than the revealed secret had. Emmy had gotten the impression that Tessa was not the kind of person to have friends, excluding Benson, and had rather pitied her for it; now, she saw that Tessa simply didn’t have any friends who were a discussable topic around polite company. At first, Emmy had thought Tessa had acted on instinct, or impulse, that night in Chicago. She wasn’t sure anymore. She realized she very well might not want to know a thing about Tommy Shelby, might someday regret even recognizing the name. Like she regretted Richard’s. Thinking of him made her head feel heavy and foggy and sick, so she took another drink, and pushed it away. 

“Where to begin,” she said, to Tessa, with as much of a smile as she could manage. Tessa did not look especially enthusiastic about the conversation either, but she was trying, at least. Tessa was always trying, for others, and Emmy felt a sudden pang of regret over her recent treatment of her. “At the beginning, then. Go on. How did you meet?” 

Tessa made a face like she was deliberating how much to expose, how deeply to incriminate herself. “At one of my father’s hospitals. I was working there at the time, he was admitted.” She finished the fourth shot in a quick, smooth motion, and didn’t blink, set the empty glass down beside its three brothers.

“Oh,” Emmy said. “I didn’t know you worked with patients. I thought it was administrative.” 

For perhaps the first time in Emmy’s memory, she realized Tessa was blushing, slightly, perhaps that was the alcohol coloring her cheeks. She looked down as she said, 

“I didn’t. It was.” She cleared her throat a bit, tangling her fingers. 

“In case you can’t recall and it hasn’t been established, he has quite nice eyes,” Benson drawled. “Nice everything, now that I think about it,” he added, with a sly smile at Tessa, who mouthed “Fuck _off,”_ and, judging by Benson’s wince, stood on his foot. 

“Duly noted,” Emmy said, hiding her smile behind her delicate martini glass. “But what is he like?” 

Benson’s grin grew wider. “A friendlier, more Christian man never has lived,” he replied, much too sincerely to actually be sincere. Tessa seemed to give up and only rolled her glittering eyes at him. 

“He’s…,” she said, frowning slightly and looking out into the crowd, as if scanning the room for her answer. “He’s… er…,” Then her knitted eyebrows parted and lips dropped into a red O like a bullet wound. “ _My bloody fucking God_ ,” she whispered, Emmy winced, “He’s fucking _here_.”

  
  
  
  
LONDON  
  


Tessa had been dodging his calls all day, and he needed to speak to her. 

“That’s it, is it? That’s all?” Arthur said in an annoying voice like he knew something, which Tommy was aware was a categorically false statement, because Arthur didn’t know fuck all. 

“Yes,” he said, tugging his arm through the sleeve of his black coat, satin lining sliding smooth against his suit. “It’s business, Arthur.” 

“Mmph,” Arthur said, from his spot by the window. “Alright,” he said, then, suddenly, like he’d made up his mind. “Then I’m takin’ the boys with us.” Tommy blinked, irritated. 

“I just _fucking_ said it was business, Art-,” Tommy started, but Arthur cut him off. 

“You get to go out and chase tail and call it business, so do we,” he said, waving his hand. 

“What would Linda say about that, eh, brother?” Tommy struck, immediately, cupping his hands around the end of the cigarette he had just withdrawn as he lit it. Arthur should’ve known better than to try to speak over him. After he inhaled, he thawed slightly, like the smoke had calmed him. He pointed his cigarette like a gun, said, “Don’t fucking speak about Tessa like that,” a gentle warning, but a warning nonetheless, and Arthur realized he had miscalculated what about his words had bothered his brother. 

“Don’t make me fuckin’ laugh,” Arthur said, gruffly. “Wasn’t me had her torn up like minced meat last fucking night, was it?” He asked, and Tommy blinked because he never flinched. “How do you know she wants to see you at all, hmm?” 

Tommy snapped the buckles of his briefcase loudly, turned away for a moment, Arthur wondered whether he was actually abashed, but then he turned and his face was clear and hard. 

“Just go get in the fucking car,” he said, with a wave of his hand, Arthur sniffed and turned, leaving the door open behind him. As he passed her desk, Arthur called to Lizzie, loudly enough that Tommy couldn’t help but hear. 

“They say love makes a man mad, isn’t that right, Lizzie?” He tossed, over his shoulder. “Wonder what it does to kings.” 

“Read the fucking _Iliad,”_ came Tommy’s low, sarcastic reply from past the door. Arthur hadn’t read it, and never fucking would, so he just shrugged and ambled out of the room. 

  
  
  


SOHO

Emmy heard her words, but somehow it took another moment for her to catch their exact meaning, by the time she had begun to ask “What?” Tessa was hissing, 

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me,” under her breath, pinching between her eyes, and the belated realization clicked and Emmy swivveled her head around to the staircases leading down to the floor. The nightclub was underground, but the cavernous ceilings and tiered levels made up for the lack of windows and gave it a high, arching air, comfortable and intimate simultaneously. Emmy could critique Tessa’s life choices all day long, but hardly her taste. It was an amusing thought to have immediately before spying the absolute picture of said taste, at first, no more than four blurry outlines at the top of the sweeping bannisters, square-shouldered silhouettes, the crowd drew back from them like ink droplets off wax. The jazz seemed louder, or the conversation quieter, the same stilling, charged energy of a limousine pulling up to the red carpet, the silence before a presidential parade. 

“What are they all-?” Emmy whispered to Tessa, whose lips were pressed in a tight line. She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the figures the same as nearly every person in the room. Emmy saw a couple at one of the small tables on the floor speaking in low voices that couldn’t be heard over the music, lips moving. The men were on the staircase, now, because that’s what they were, of course, Emmy found herself strangely relieved. The crowd’s reaction had made her worry that someone had shot a gun and she had somehow been the only one who hadn’t heard it. She was rather bemused about how four men could cause such a stir without being film stars, and she knew they weren’t, because she adored the cinema. The staircase wasn’t broad enough to allow them to pass broadside, so the vague, indistinguishable shape with four heads became two as they filtered down the steps. As they descended, they pulled off their caps, the chandeliers hanging from the three ceilings caught in two brief flashes and Emmy’s brows were furrowed. 

“Didn’t you check to see if he owned the place before you chose it?” Benson asked, his voice full of humor that Tessa did not seem to share.

“Of course I did,” she muttered, speaking very quickly, eyes darting back to the crowd. The men reached the bottom of the stairs, began crossing the floor, Emmy could see the suits, now, eight dress shoes, four crisp ties, could see the hair, three strange undercuts and one smooth waves, could almost see the faces-

“We have to get out of here before they see us,” Tessa said, Emmy was wondering why there was dread bubbling up in her stomach. She expected Benson to snap into combat mode, but instead, he was still grinning. Wider, now. “Benson,” Tessa begged, “Don’t be a fucking git, this isn’t funny-,”

“It’s a little funny.”

“We can duck out the back door-,” 

“Bit late for that now,” Benson sighed, lips twitching. 

“He doesn’t have any fucking reason to be here,” Tessa muttered, and Benson snorted. 

“He’s got one,” he mumbled under his breath, Tessa was standing, Emmy stared sadly down at her half-full martini. 

“Can’t we finish our drinks?” she asked, Tessa reached across her, snagged the delicate glass, and downed it in two swallows. 

“Done,” she said, licking vodka from her lips, Emmy glared at her and a voice said, 

“Good evening, Miss Reilly,” in a deep, smoky baritone and both women snapped their attention around. 

  
  
SOHO  
  
  
  


Tommy Shelby’s features were cast in the tinkling light that glittered with crystal, he looked cut from stone himself, high cheekbones sweeping into a strong jaw, deep eye sockets shadowed, the three other men spread out behind him with military precision. The room was drifting in smoke and smelled of incense and perfume and something dry like old parchment. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Tessa said, very flatly, as the men and the room’s eyes watched her. Tommy spread his hands. His cufflinks blinked, his shoes were immaculately shined. Emmy slowly slid her gaze from him to the men slightly behind him, whose features were still difficult to distinguish; a mustache here, cherubic lips there. 

“Small world, eh?” Tommy asked, impassively, his voice was different than she was expecting but she wasn’t sure what she had expected, rough and dark as coal, Northern burr rolling the edges. The voice of the devil. Emmy was impressed with Tessa’s curt, 

“Yes, coincidence being the only plausible explanation,” because she wasn’t sure, if it was _her_ Tommy had been staring at like that, that she could have come up with a semblance of a reply. He took a few more unconcerned steps forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers; tailored, clean, and ironed. The men behind followed suit and even made it look natural, like as one finger moved, the others trailed after. Emmy could see their faces, now, younger than she had been expecting. The only one who looked more the age of the men she had used to seeing in power, the one with the mustache, had an expressive face and soulful eyes, his hair slicked back into a cruel cut. He blew a cheeky kiss to Tessa. 

“Hello, boys,” Tessa called, dropping back into her seat resignedly, and the one to Tommy’s left bounded forward suddenly, a wide grin cracking his face, fair skin and rosy cheeks. 

“Been too long, poppet,” he said, he was still striding closer, movements loose and fluid. Emmy scooted away, Tessa said, 

“You saw me last night, John,” in an amused voice, which turned to a squeak of surprise as the man named John leaned across the table to plant a firm kiss on her mouth. There was a beat of astonished silence before he pulled back, lips quirking and eyes dancing, he smelled sharp, like black pepper. He made a face like he wasn’t sure what they were all staring at, and said, laughing again, 

“Oh. From Esme, that was.” 

And the fourth figure, the one with the neat hair, laughed, a sound that was cut silent by Tommy barely turning his head towards it. Tessa blinked, a small smile on her lips. 

“I _thought_ it was better than usual,” she said, and at that, John cackled and whooped as well. Tommy cleared his throat, and Emmy realized with a feeling like smacking the numbing spot on your elbow that he was now staring at her. She became oddly aware of her breath. 

“And who’s this?” he asked, like the rattle of a snake, soft and deadly. Emmy forced down a swallow, her eyes slightly blurry, as he came into better focus, she said, 

“Tessa was right. You do have pretty eyes,” and if she had expected him to be thrown, she was sorely disappointed. He raised his dark eyebrows slightly, dripping arrogance, his gaze, thankfully, rested on Tessa again, taking in the tinge of her cheeks with an air of something boastful. 

“This is Emmaline,” Tessa said, her voice a bit weak, there was a pause before she added, “Rockefeller,” and Emmy got the sudden, chilling feeling that it was not a particularly popular surname in present company. The man to Tommy’s right shifted slightly, Tommy’s eyebrows raised another millimeter. 

“Oh,” he said, his tone colder and sharper than steel, “A refugee.” The response was so instant and cutting that Emmy dropped her eyes to the burnt velvet of the tablecloth, the swirling pattern swimming in her eyes. To her surprise and gratitude, Tessa straightened beside her, and said firmly, 

“No more than I am.” Emmy made the mistake of glancing up again, and she could see Tommy’s frozen eyes beaming through the darkness, bright and empty. His hair was black, or it was dark enough to be in the shadows, the longer top spilling across his forehead, framing the sharp cuts of his bones. His face was immobile in appraisal and doubt, like he was grading her and finding her lacking, and she wished she was sat next to anyone in the world but Tessa Reilly for comparison. 

“No? Last I checked, you don’t use others to do your dirty work,” he said, addressing Tessa but looking so intensely at Emmy that she wanted to shrink down under the table. Then he pointed at her, so there could be no mistake, she was rooted to her chair and likely couldn’t have slunk off it even if she had wanted to. “You opened my city’s gates to fascists when your spine gave out. You endangered my family with your cowardice. And you should know,” he told her, like he could read her mind, like he could read her regrets on her face, “that what Tessa did for you was a sacrifice.”

There was another pregnant pause, even the music quieted as the current song faded out, like the whole room had sucked in a breath. People were still watching them, covertly, stealing looks as they sipped their drinks. Emmy’s skin felt cold. 

“I- I-,” she tried, but before she could sink herself further, Tessa stood again. 

“Alright,” she said, brightly, warningly, “time for Thomas and I to have a word alone.” 

Tommy did not seem at all chagrined by this declaration, in fact, his eyes did not leave Emmy even as she stood from the booth to allow Tessa to pass her, limbs heavy with shame. Tessa tugged on Tommy’s coat sleeve as she passed to get him to follow, her wrist spun with gold, and, to Emmy’s surprise, he did, following her despite the fact that her head reached his chin, leaving the others with varying levels of awkwardness held in the height of their shoulders. The music started up again, Emmy was blinking quite fast. A voice broke the ice that had formed around them.

“Emmaline,” he said, stepping forward and reaching out a hand, scrubbed fingernails and crisp sleeves, “I’m Michael. It’s lovely to meet you.” 

He had a pleasant sort of voice. Husky but even, good for business meetings. She placed her hand within his briefly, if only to be polite. Sometimes, the idea of a man’s touch felt like a film over her skin that she couldn’t remove, like his sweat had left her stained. Michael’s hand only felt warm. 

“It’s Emmy,” she said, softly, Benson lit a cigarette to her left, his long limbs stretched out under the table. 

“Emmy,” Michael corrected, with a small smile, “These are my cousins, Arthur and John. The bastard that just left is a brother as well.” 

Emmy tried to return his hesitant grin, grateful to him for his kindness, but Tommy’s eyes swam behind hers, the coldness in them had left a chill on her like morning mist. On closer inspection, however, the other two brothers did not seem quite so imposing; at the moment, the mustached one seemed nearly abashed, the other tense and shifting slightly on his feet. To Emmy’s right, Benson was the opposite, but he and Tessa had, after all, shared a flask in the taxi, on top of the several empty glasses before him. And then, horribly, 

“Stay for a drink, men,” Benson said, invitingly, gesturing at their inadequately sized booth. Emmy held back a gasp of horror, followed Tessa’s example, and stood on Benson’s other foot, perhaps not as subtly as she should have, because Michael seemed to notice. 

“Tommy said we’re here on business,” he said, his suit was pinstriped and dark and pristine. “Said no games and no whisky.” 

“Have Tess ask him, then,” Benson replied, as if that resolved the matter entirely, Michael’s lip tugged up like a fish on a hook. He was a boy, really, just barely a man, but he held himself with quiet composure and Emmy found herself watching him like a child peeking through a fence. He met her eyes. His were like Tessa’s, a deep, cool shade difficult to distinguish in the dark. Much better, Emmy thought, than that skylit shade of blue, no matter how striking it may have been. 

“Is he always like that?” Emmy heard herself asking, looking into the crowd where Tommy and Tessa had disappeared, and John scratched his head a bit, sniffed. His hair was much lighter than Tommy’s, but cut in the same strange style. 

“Nah,” he said, drawing out the word, “Course not. Sometimes he’s a lot fuckin’ worse.” 

Benson laughed, made a grudging face, and took another sip of whisky. The older brother, the one whose name she had already forgotten, had his hands in his coat pockets, almost defensive. Emmy had used to be so good with names. 

“Yeah, well,” he said, ticking his head like a hound, “‘e’s always like that ‘bout Tess, all right. He’d take an ear off anyone so much as tripped on ‘er shoelace.” 

Then he fell silent again, realizing too late the mention of violence in front of a lady, a stranger, and Emmy thought, suddenly, _of course._ Of course that’s what they did, it all made sense; the whispers she had heard about the Shelby’s being dangerous, the way Tessa had made a phone call and a murder cleanup crew had appeared like on-call utility men, the money and the power and the absolute hush at their appearance. Emmy smacked her lips and hoped she looked braver than she felt. 

“You could probably use that drink as much as I do, then,” she said, the mustached one chuckled. 

“The lady’s got a point, all right,” he said, cracking his knuckles, for a split second, he looked threatening, terrifying, and then it was gone. 

“We’re going to need a bigger fuckin’ table,” John said, and Emmy was wondering what she had gotten herself into. 

  
  
  


BIRMINGHAM, 1922

  
  
  


The Garrison felt different after the war. Everything felt different. Tommy couldn’t have told you _how,_ it just _did,_ like everything in his vision had been altered the tiniest bit, replaced with a fake, he had been dropped into a world that mimicked the one he knew, into a life he wasn’t really living. He was still in the mud. He would always be in the dirt and the ground and the mud. A man walked in, older, tall, distinguished. He had a neat, dark beard that faded into thick grey hair, spectacles, and a distinguished, literary air. He looked about as odd against the company of the Garrison as a peacock among penguins, but sat and crossed his legs as is his surroundings were of no consequence to him. 

“You requested a meeting with me,” Tommy said, because it bored him, waiting to see who would speak first. He had seven more after this one, and he hadn’t heard from Arthur all day. 

“Yes,” the man said, his hair made him look older than he really was, his face was unlined and unwithered, his nose and jaw still strong. “I am Leonard Reilly.” 

He said it with the unmistakable air that it _meant_ something, and it wasn’t as though Tommy wasn’t guilty of using the technique occasionally himself, he resented when others attempted to use it on him. It was one of the rules. If Alfie’d said his own name like that, Tommy would’ve socked him, sans explanation, for being a prick. Leonard Reilly did not know the rules. If Tommy hadn’t already known who he was, he would have just then, ten seconds in. 

“I know who you are,” he responded, cooly. “I want to know what you want.” 

Children laughed and screeched in the street outside. Leonard’s face became monetarily wistful. 

“I want your help protecting my child,” he said, lacing his fingers together. It was direct, at least. Sometimes it took people ages to get around to it, like the longer they put it off the less illegal their requests became. Like there was any difference between cocaine or snow or Tokyo besides the name. 

“From whom?” Tommy asked, evenly, lighting a cigarette. Leonard rubbed at his eyebrow. 

“Germans,” he said, shortly, “And retribution.” 

“I already fought a war to protect people’s children from Germans,” Tommy answered, he wondered if the rest of his day would go by faster if he started the whisky now. “I have no interest in ever doing so again.” He took a deep drag. 

“You haven’t heard my offer,” Leonard said, it seemed that business, at least, he understood. Tommy waited, giving no indication for him to continue other than his silence. “Whatever you want, whatever the price. I’ll pay it.” 

“If you think your family is in danger,” Tommy questioned instead of giving his answer, “why not go to the police? What do Germans want with an Irishman?” 

“Political power. I have… some influence,” Leonard replied, smoothly, but-, 

“No,” Tommy said, raising a finger, “you said _retribution._ That means you did something first. Something that pushed the wheel.” 

“My daughter,” Leonard said, after a long pause. “Should not be condemned for her father’s mistakes.”

“Tell that to Jesus,” Tommy said. “I assume he’d sympathize.” Leonard’s face clouded, Tommy kept his blank. “Your daughter. What’s her name?” 

“Tessa,” Leonard replied, perhaps because he had mistakenly thought Tommy had softened. He reached into the chest pocket of his charcoal coat, the silver threading glimmering and elegant, drew out a large golden stopwatch, clicked it open and passed it across the table. A photograph was tucked against the inside of the gilded lid- a young woman’s face, the kind of face that looked like it was from finer blood than Tommy’s horses. Tommy rather got the impression that Leonard had hoped seeing her would sway his mind. 

“Right,” Tommy told him, the snug was warm in the morning light. “You want my advice? Take Tessa and get out of the country, don't come back. Or stay, buy her a weapon, and teach her to shoot. Your choice.” He drew the smoke out his mouth through his nose, felt it creep down his throat. Leonard blinked. 

“You won’t help, then.” His statement was flat. Tommy cleared his throat. 

“No. I have my own family needs looking after.” He offered his hand in a clear gesture of farewell. Leonard did not take it. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Reilly. Finn will see you to the door.” 

  
  
  


SOHO, TODAY

  
  
  


He saw her in the booth the club’s owner had said she was in when he had called. She was wearing a red silk dress, and as she moved it shifted against cream skin, flowing like liquid, like the cascade of her hair, the copper brighter against it and under the twinkling lights. She glowed across the room like rubies, like treasure, a dragon’s hoard or maybe the dragon’s teeth. She was already looking at him, of course, as he crossed the room with his men behind him. He let his feet carry him towards her, gave in to the pull, let them guide him to where he wanted to go, always wanted to be. Judging by her expression, Arthur had been correct, and she was not particularly inclined to speak with him at the moment. Thankfully, talking to her, if nothing else, was hardly difficult to achieve when he had eyes and ears on every city block. And because he knew she could never resist having a go at him, so when she drug him away from the rest of the party and snapped, 

“You shouldn’t have spoken to Emmaline like that,” he didn’t so much as blink. 

“Maybe not, but it worked,” he said, Tessa stalled slightly, then pulled to a stop, so suddenly Tommy nearly smacked her face into his chest. Toe to toe, she had to tilt her head to look at him. 

“ _What_ worked?” She asked, flatly, caging him with her gaze as if she knew that otherwise he would slip away. 

“I needed to speak with you,” Tommy said, the almond eyes staring up at his narrowed, “Arthur said you weren’t in a very… conversational mood.” 

Tessa clicked her tongue behind white teeth and cherry lips like the sound of something snapping into place. “Always playing tricks, Tommy,” she said, and her voice was cold enough to burn, cold like Polly’s when she found him on the floor with brown bottles of poison around him like graves in a cemetery.Then, “So you didn’t mean it. That bit about Emmy.” 

“Didn’t say that, did I?” Tommy replied, because he had meant it, actually, because he could shoot down anyone at any moment without even needing his gun. It was a gift of his, a painful one. One he did everything in his power not to use around her. Never to use on her. He had hurt her enough. But desperate times and the way she looked in that dress, well. He was going to get her alone one way or another. Now, however, she was clearly on her guard, stepping up a few steps and ducking behind a wall of tapestry shadowing the stage. Behind it, the air was stuffy and warm, and as it swished down behind him Tommy thought some of the sound was muffled as well, because he could suddenly hear Tessa breathing, the only light was the faint glow of the crystals adorning the ceilings through the heavy cloth. 

“Fucking talk, then,” Tessa said, her voice was even but the rush of her inhale gave her away. He could see her outline, barely, because it was darker than the murky backdrop of the tapestry. Her eyelashes swished. 

“Remember that custodian’s closet in the hospital? The night we met?” Tommy asked her, her breaths stuttered, like her mouth could lie but her lungs couldn’t. 

“That’s what you came here to say?” she asked, disbelief in the huff of her voice, which had a bite of vodka and venom. 

“What if it was?” he asked, quietly. She pulled back, taking her scent of nectar and sunlight with her. 

“It isn’t.” 

He didn’t argue with her. “There’s some things you need to know,” he began, because he didn’t know how else to, “about Victoria’s death.” 

“O...kay,” Tessa said, dubiously, he felt her energy shift again, saw the bracelets on her wrists glittering as she tapped her fingers against her arms. Tommy realized they were made from two snakes circling up each forearm, golden scales and emerald eyes, as was the necklace 

“The Irish asked for you. By name,” he told her, and her mouth opened and closed and then she asked, 

“What?” which was an impressively solid reaction, given the information he had just relayed. 

“Best guess, Victoria told them she worked for you.” She licked her lips, shook her head, slightly, astonished. 

“ _Fuck,”_ she said, in an undertone but no less harsh because of it. “I should’ve known that would come ‘round and bite me in the ass. I should’ve just fucking offed the bitch when I had the chance.” 

“Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Tommy replied, evenly, Tessa’s burning look was bright enough to shine through the darkness. 

“Why?” she asked, bleakly. “They can’t hear us.”

There was a moment of silence while Tommy firmly resisted the urge to do something, he wasn’t even decided on what, touch her, kiss her, tell her he loved her, and then she spoke again. The drumming of her fingers was growing faster, like fluttering moth wings against a light. 

“What do the Irish want from me?” she asked, “Or do I not want to hear the answer to that?” Tommy stayed silent, Tessa gave a quick, terrified sigh. “Spectacular,” she muttered, “Just what I needed.” There was another pause, he let her process, listened to the faint, mournful swing of a saxophone. He reached up to pull his cigarettes from his pocket as Tessa mused, “That’s why you called Benson back, isn’t it?” And he nodded as he flicked his lighter, the spark and feeling familiar against his fingers, in his mouth, it was better to do something to occupy himself with while they were standing so close. 

“Connections are protection,” he told her, taking a drag, watching her pull her hair over her shoulder. “Benson has access to our… network of information. And our muscle. We can have fifty men in fifteen minutes anywhere from here to Worcester.” 

“Fourteen too many to matter,” she bit, and he realized she was less cynical and more scared than she was pretending to be. 

“That’s what Benson’s for,” he told her, lightly, she did not smile, she was staring out into the darkness like she wasn’t even there. “Look at me, love, eh? It’s alright.” The corners of her eyes were crinkled and brow furrowed, he reached out and tucked a wave behind her ear, traced her jaw with his thumb and nudged her chin up. “You’re safe.”

“Liar,” she whispered, eyes large and wide, the condemnation brushing past his lips with her breath like a kiss. 

“I’ve never lied to you,” he told her, and instead of softening the worry lines on her face, they deepened, her eyes flickered. Her skin was warm and smooth and soft. He dropped his hand. “The Irish are my problem. I’ll make sure you aren’t involved.” 

“Tommy,” she said, quietly, he hummed back around his cigarette, the glow catching on the golden serpent circling her neck, the three white scars. The use of his name surprised him, but not as much as the soft, “Thank you,” that followed. He didn’t think there was much to thank him for, really, considering he was the one who had struck nearly all the matches that had set everything aflame, but he just nodded, too unfamiliar with gratitude to do much else. 

“There’s still Rockefeller,” he warned, because he knew he could say it without shattering any illusions. Tessa looked the world in the eyes, and he admired that about her. 

“It’ll take Edward months to clean up the mess left from Richard’s suicide.” Her tone was practical, unaffected. She was staring at the dark folds of cloth beside her like she could see straight through them, and Tommy remembered, suddenly, that there was a whole club just beyond, that it was not just him and a girl in their own world. 

“How do you know that?” he asked, curiously. She glanced at him, opened the black clutch that hung from a strap on her wrist. Snakeskin, too. She took out her cigarettes and snapped it closed, and then let out a tight breath like she had been squeezed by a python. 

“Said so himself,” and, after Tommy ticked his eyebrows, “He called me,” she told him, rather reluctantly. “Last night.” 

Tommy gave a slight grunt. “So,” he said. “He knows where you live.” He flicked ash off the end of his smoke, flicked his lighter and held it to the end of Tessa’s. From her expression, illuminated briefly by the small flame, he surmised that this was something she had already considered, but all she said was a sardonic,

“Yes. These days everyone seems to know where I am before I even arrive,” as smoke that looked white in the darkness spun from her lips. He scoffed and smirked, and for a moment, there was only the crackle of their cigarettes and the faded notes of music and laughter. “Your lady lover paid me a visit,” Tessa remarked, dryly, taking another drag, slowly, unconcernedly, like she couldn’t have fucking cared less who Tommy was sleeping with even if they had showed up on her front door. 

“She mentioned,” Tommy replied, shortly, wishing he had a glass of whisky in his hand to drive off the sting of his thoughts. “You two are best mates now, I take it?” he asked, Tessa inhaled, said, 

“Not quite,” and let the smoke and breath out again. “But still. We should strive to protect the innocent, no?” 

Tommy blinked, then rolled his eyes, a motion he doubted she could see through the dark but was somewhat cathartic all the same. 

“You’re talking about your little stowaway,” he said, jerking his chin past the curtain to the universe beyond, Tessa’s bracelets tinkled as her fingers tapped. “You’re a fuckin’ bleeding heart, Tess,” he told her, the edge of the bare light caught her mouth pulling into a frown, “All those broken birds you try to save-,” Saving Ada at the farmhouse, saving Lucy even though she should’ve left her in that office to think on her sins, saving Emmy and losing Edward’s protection in the process. It would get her killed. 

“Emmy is a good person, Thomas,” she countered, like that meant a fucking thing, he pretended his heart didn’t pop like a bubble as she said his name. 

“So fucking what?” he asked, “If Victoria had been a good person, she still would’ve given up your fucking name. That’s what good people do when someone brands them like fucking cattle.” He ran a hand over his face, didn’t miss the sharp jerk of her chest. 

“Is that what they did?” she whispered, a bit faint, he remained silent. She was right. He had lied when he told her she was safe. He saw Victoria’s body in his mind’s eye, saw the face John had made when the coroner rolled her onto her chest and he saw what had been done to her back. 

“She can have Michael,” Tommy said, moved the chess pieces around in his head, “He’s the only one I can spare and his office is in London so he can still go to work. He had… he got his first one, about a year ago. He did well.” Tessa blew out an unsteady breath of smoke, nodded slightly, he was remembering the way the taste of her lips at the Garrison had been like stumbling across a drop of water in the desert. He took a step closer, until she could have rested her forehead against his chest, could’ve dropped her head onto his shoulder. She did neither, holding herself back like a horse’s reins. He wrapped his hand around her right wrist, turned it upwards slightly, his fingers pressing against her pulse. He was so fucking grateful for it, suddenly, so glad she was alive, that she hadn’t-, 

But there it was, faint and fast under her skin. Her breath wavered. She didn’t speak. 

“That closet in the hospital,” Tommy murmured, no matter how quietly he said it, it felt too loud, too raw, “that was the first time I ever touched you.”

He could feel her heart skip, like a stone over water, but when she spoke it was almost dismissive and he didn’t _understand-,_

“Why are you talking about the past, Tommy?” she asked, like there was no oxygen in her lungs and she had to fight to get it out. He lowered his face until their lips were millimeters apart, until it was him swallowing the air she couldn’t breathe. She held her breath, tilted her face, very barely, and he whispered, 

“What fucking _past?_ ” and pulled away, saw the lines of her collarbones, tight and tense, he clicked his tongue, shook his head, scoffed a bit. And then pulled back the heavy dark curtain, and stepped back into the world where time was still spinning. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> normally each scene for this story is narrated by one person, but that might not always be true and it ends up being more stream of consciousness like in raign. I know at this point I dont have to explain my writing to you guys bc after all, you powered through that absolute insanity and stuck around lmao cheers to us love u love u xoxo


	19. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was lost until I found me in you  
> I saw a side of me that I was scared to  
> But now I hear my name and I'm running your way
> 
> All I feel as I get closer to you  
> Is the desire to move like you do  
> So now I hear my name and I'm running your way  
> I am ready now
> 
> It's my desire that you feed  
> You know just what I need  
> You got power, you got power  
> You got power over me  
> I give my all now, can't you see  
> Why won't you set me free?  
> You got power, you got power  
> You got power over me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it with the timestamps lmao pay attention lovers, class is in session
> 
> Also holy FUCK I forgot to say!! there are triggers for the chapter and I need to update the tags Sksksksks I am so so sorry. warnings include mentions of child prostitution (I know), substance abuse, and dubious consent (kind of? just to be safe) please be careful, you know the drill!

10:49pm

  
  


Tessa was on the way to being quite drunk and was doing everything in her power not to make it evident, because as much as she did not want to be seeing Tommy, she wanted to be seeing him while sloshed significantly less. It made the likelihood of her saying something fucking _stupid_ porpotionally more likely, something stupid like his daughter’s name. His fucking _daughter._ And there he was, standing there, talking to her in a nightclub, and he didn’t have a damn clue. Saying or _doing_ something stupid. Tessa’s legs were unsteady, from any number of things. The moment you know you really aren’t sober is the very same one you start trying to convince yourself you are, and she admitted she was fighting another losing battle. In an instant, Tessa was imagining the IRA finding her child and issuing their unprovoked anger on her, then Edward, sending his men in masks to swarm the house, an army of them, then she was seeing the buzzed back of Tommy’s hair through the darkness as she followed him back to the booth in the alcove, which was now empty. Tessa couldn’t feel her feet crossing the floor, but the buzz was pleasant, the aura of the room pulsing slightly, she realized Tommy had waited for her and felt rather surprised he hadn’t vanished into the crowd, into the shadows. God, did she enjoy the way he was looking at her. She blinked. Addison Manor was burning down for the second time. The trumpet sang, everything was like Colindale, she had the sudden, childish impulse to reach for Tommy’s hand. And she thought about snow. 

  
  


10:54pm

  
  


The rest of them had relocated to a private box above the balcony, that looked out upon the stage and the floor below. Benson, Arthur, John and Michael were gathered at a large, low table, each holding a deck of cards, which was so uncharacteristically unobtrusive of them that it made Tessa forgive the time it had taken to track them down. Emmy was behind Benson’s shoulder, her lips pursed as she stared at his hand. She whispered something to him, and he said, 

“Call,” tossed a few chips into the center. Arthur had the worst poker face Tessa had ever seen, and was staring at his cards like the numbers were written in sanskrit. Emmy’s complexion blanched noticeably when she saw Tommy open the door, shoulders set, but seemed to ease slightly as she spied Tessa following him, as if she had been worried for her return. John had a cigar smoldering in his mouth, Michael was puffing a cigarette with his cards held to his chest, the smoke perched neatly between two fingers. 

“They told _me_ all the private boxes were taken,” Tessa told Tommy as she passed him, giving herself a mental pat on the back for managing to sound so steady. The walls were hung with the same dark material sheltering the stage, it made the space of furnishings feel cushioned and isolated from the crowd that milled below. Tommy didn’t smile, but the corners of his lips pulled, the bones of his chiseled cheeks lit by the hazy, red lamp glow. 

“They were.” He said pragmatically, closing the door he had been holding open for her behind him, all arrogance, the warm rush that passed through her at his words made her mind swim, torn into shredded bits like a threshing machine. She shouldn’t have craved it, shouldn’t have been basking in it, but she was, like the power was hot water. _Does it change you?_ May had asked her, somehow innocent and pure in a way Tessa had never been, not really. She wanted to say _Once you get a taste of blood you never go back to wine,_ wanted to say _No, it just shows you who you always were._ Fucking heathens, really, they all were, everyone was, even if they didn’t know it yet. Tessa could feel the urges rising like the tide inside her, something to get lost and trapped and swept away in. She could feel the darkness at her back like a shadow. Arthur smirked at Tommy’s words, his mustache twitching behind his cards, Tessa caught the raised brow Emmy shot at Benson. There was a clear bottle by Emmy’s elbow, and she made a beeline so direct Arthur laughed. 

“Tenner on Benson,” she said, John scoffed. 

“Tenner on Mrs. Rockefeller, you mean,” he said, and before anyone else had time to react, Emmy laughed, and it was quiet and soft and delicate as a newborn bud. 

  
  


11:30pm

  
  


Tessa was beating Tommy at chess. Michael wasn’t sure he could adequately express how wonderful it felt to see Tommy finally fucking lose at something, or even be remotely challenged, but it was a glorious experience seemingly mirrored on the faces of everyone else in the room besides his cousin’s, whose fingers were steepled together in serene concentration. Not that people were often on Tommy’s team otherwise, because he played chess like a sniper used a scope, one piece, two pieces, three pieces fell and Tessa showed nothing, not a blink or a flicker on her porcelain face. Her dark lids were lowered as she stared down at the board and her eyes skittered about, Tommy was, as usual, as emotive as a particularly insensitive rock. Tessa moved, Tommy struck, a white pawn fell. Tessa took the rook that had taken her piece with a castle. Tommy met her eyes, she drew a long finger across her throat, across the three white scars, and smiled. Tommy didn’t, but amusement flashed across his eyes. He moved in on her knight. 

Michael didn’t actually know for certain that she was winning until she had won, the game flipped like a dying fish so often it made his head spin. Tommy made a surprising backtrack that ended up being a lure, she fell for it, her queen was exposed by the pawn she adjusted to defend. And for the smallest fraction of a second, Tessa winced. Tommy saw it. No more white queen. Michael would have put several hundred pounds on her not lasting four moves after that. And yet somehow, fifteen minutes later, she had a pawn at the other side of the board, her queen restored, Tommy’s king trapped between it and her remaining bishop. 

“Checkmate,” she said, pridefully, her sharp nails were the very same shade she wore on her lips and dress, a blistering crimson and she moved her recrowned monarch to nudge Tommy’s black king over. 

“Fuck me,” Tommy muttered, under his breath, dragging a palm down his face. Michael wondered when the last time he had been beaten was, if it had ever happened at all, and he wondered when it had become strange to see Tessa grinning like she was. Emmy clapped, slow and measured, Arthur raised his glass. 

“Toast to the fuckin’ queen, Miss Reilly,” he said, a little slurred, from an armchair, John replied in an even sloppier and louder tone, 

“Mrs. _Shelby!”_ with all the conviction of a child informing you of their age. He sat up in his chair where he had been slumped, pointed at Tommy and Tessa, who were sat by the low table. Michael hated that his brother’s accents were different from his. Like the mark of abandonment was seared into his very fucking voice. But if they called her a Shelby, American lilt and all, he felt a little less like an outsider. “Like it shoul’ave been!” 

Tessa cleared her throat slightly, resetting the chess board like she didn’t want to meet anyone’s prying eyes, as they were all now following the direction of John’s finger like onlookers observing a tennis match. 

“Yes, well,” Tessa said, lightly, “that got a bit derailed.” Tommy was looking at her in that searing way he did, like he was reading the pages of her mind, or wanted to. He didn’t speak, she didn’t raise her eyes. 

“So when’s it gonna be back fuckin’ on?” John asked, as if it was the obvious question none of them were asking, and, really, he was right. It was the most peculiar fucking thing, not having Tessa around. Peculiar to miss Tommy slamming doors, Tommy smiling, Tommy speaking to people like he might just fucking be one of them. He didn’t say anything when she wasn’t near, didn’t even always seem to be there without her. Like she brought him back from something, from somewhere. But she still wasn’t meeting Tommy’s stare, or answering John’s prompt. She fiddled with a pawn under the pad of her pointer finger. John rounded on his brother, whose face was blanker than a wall. “Tommy! Come the fuck off it! You’afta do somethin’ bout this, mate. Fuck that rich toft bird, anyway,” he said, gesturing empathically with the glass in his hand, which was thankfully empty and therefore did not send its contents sloshing over the fine carpet. Tommy blinked his dark lashes, and said, predictably, 

“Shut up, John,” and John obliged, for the most part, but Tessa stood. Michael noticed her face seemed to have gone white, but the lamps cast a warm, dispersed light, so it was difficult to be sure. 

“Excuse me, I have to visit the loo,” she said, rather rushed, Emmy raised her chin from where it was resting in her hands and said lazily, 

“I’ll accompany yo-,” but Tessa cut her off, shaking her head sharply, making the red waves shimmer over red satin. 

“That’s alright, just- order me another round, yeah?” She asked, as she was turning, Michael alone knew to watch Tommy instead of her, and his blue eyes were very slightly narrowed. He stood just as the door behind Tessa opened and closed, the jazz wafting in for a moment like an aroma. 

“Where’re _you_ fucking going, then?” Arthur called, but Tommy ignored him completely, shoulders stiff under the crisp lines of his suit. Emmy tutted under her breath. 

“Quite rude, the both of them,” in a very prim voice, and Michael smirked inwardly, basking in not being the one completely baffled by the couple for once. 

  
  


11:31pm

  
  


Tessa tried cocaine when she was fourteen, the same night she saw a man’s cock for the first time. Her mother said they tasted sweet, Tessa hadn’t thought so, didn’t think it tasted of much of anything, really, except skin. 

“You’ll enjoy it,” Amelia had said, gesturing with the champagne flute sparkling in her hand. She didn’t specify if she meant the man or what he offered, but Tessa didn’t know to ask. So she went with Governor Singer, the famous producer. No one ever said what it was or where it was he was the Governor _of,_ and Tessa never learned. She did, however, find out later her that mother had been promised a lead in one of his pictures on one condition, and Tessa followed him to his hotel room and sucked his cock and took snow off a gilded mirror like a portal into heaven. She didn’t remember it much, really, because she mostly tried not to; it made her feel queasy and sick, not the memory itself particularly, because she had worse ones, much worse ones, but the betrayal. Amelia had been different after the war like she had fought in it. Not everyone comes back from losing a child. But that’s what she had done to Tommy, though, wasn’t it? That’s what she would be doing again, the baby with May, and what if Tommy never forgave her and he discovered or she gave in and that would be _worse,_ wouldn’t it, would be worse than this, than staring at him and wanting him so badly it made her ache deep like it was coming from her bones. Or maybe that was the lies, burning up her throat like the vodka, she couldn’t tell him she couldn’t say she couldn’t lose him. Edward’s face swam behind her eyes when she blinked, smiling his cold smile. The Perish, in their brown shirts and evil convictions, were coming for her, too, swarming her. IRA with unmarked weapons and generations of ability. She couldn’t breathe. She tapped out a white line. 

  
  


11:32pm

  
  


“Sir, that’s the women’s lavatory, you can’t-,” He should have known better, really, the man outside the door, than to say the word _can’t._ Tommy thought very seriously about whipping his Colt across the man’s jaw, but decided against it, because he wasn’t meant to do that sort of thing anymore. Instead, he reached into the chest pocket of his jacket, began counting out pounds. The man’s eyes widened. Tommy flickered the papers between his fingers. 

“This is yours,” he said, “when I come out, if you don’t let anyone else in.” 

And the man stepped away from the door. 

  
  


11:32pm

  
  
  


For a moment, Tessa wasn’t sure if she had heard the door open or if it was just the rush of blood in her ears. She jerked her head up, and he was already behind her in the mirror, hair and clothes dark, skin and eyes light. 

“The men’s room is down the hall,” she said, he tutted. He wasn’t smoking, which was a bad sign. It meant he was very serious, and she didn’t want to compete with him, she felt like the chess game had drained her somehow of all her firepower. She would have lost if they played again, would lose any new game he devised for her. _I am fine and I am not going to fuck him._ The sad mantra of women in denial the world over, she thought, resenting him, wanting him, wanting to be drunker, higher, farther. _What fucking past?_ He had asked, his fingers around her wrist, _it’s not over it’s never over a circle is a flat line_ she resented that she hadn’t asked him to put them around her throat instead. She sniffed another messy line, not to get him to speak, but succeeding in it anyway. He sounded completely apathetic, she could imagine him with his dead expression in her mind’s eye, there was no one emptier, there was no one so close to bursting at the seams with everything locked inside. 

“The monsters are hungry tonight, eh, love?” he called, leaning against the wall, which was done up with little mirrors inlaid into its surface, so there were a hundred, a thousand tiny Tommys all ridiculing and tempting her. 

“”Don’t you have a woman to impregnate somewhere?” Tessa asked him, the snow was tingling down her arms and legs. 

“Thought you were done with that shit.” 

“Thought wrong, didn’t you?” Tessa countered, straightening, the little blue bottle on the marble counter looked like a sapphire, a precious stone, the rolled tenner felt intricately detailed under her fingers, the edges like the hollows of Tommy’s gaunt cheeks in his reflection, clean enough to cut. Her sinuses burned like she had snorted pepper instead, but her mind rang like a bell, a buzz ran to her toes. Tommy was silent, watching her with his spotlight stare. 

“Fuck off, Tommy. I know what you’re going to say,” she sighed, brushing the fine powder off her nose. “ _It’s in your contract, Tessa, you work for me, you agreed to the terms.”_ She gave a mocking and rather lousy impression of his accent, but it didn’t earn her a smile and she hadn’t really expected it to. He conveyed more scorn in a single blink over her shoulder than anyone else could’ve managed in a half hour of audible rebuke, or maybe she was wrong and there was none there at all. Eventually, after what felt like several minutes but was in reality probably about three seconds, he spoke. 

“I was going to ask if you’d share,” Tommy told her, she felt like she’d swallowed her tongue. 

“What?” she asked, then, before he could respond, accused sharply, “This is some sort of test, isn’t it?” 

“Think that chess match proved you’d pass if it was,” he sounded rather proud, she found it endearing, but his voice was worn when he said, “Not a test, no.” She waited for more, an explanation, perhaps, but there was none forthcoming. He was just standing near the wall of the lavatory, which was so posh it felt extravagant, considering the room’s main purpose. Although, in this particular club, that might not be the case. Thankfully, it struck her as the sort of place where people tended to their own business; more so than others, at least. After all, someone could walk in at any moment, but no whisky-confident men had attempted to approach her, and no one had said an audible word about the Peaky’s presence, the loo had a fucking sitting area, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t as if girls were coming in here to quote scripture on the poufs, Tessa told herself, and envied them and pitied them for their problems, for their lives. 

“Help yourself,” she said, turning, gesturing at the countertop. Tommy took a few sharp steps over, pinched the rolled note and leaned down, the black spill of his hair gleaming under the lights above the mirror, his jacket tight across his shoulders. Tessa’s nose was burning or maybe that was the spread of the fizzing of her mind like a firecracker fuse, Tommy snorted a line in a precise, practiced motion. She forgot, sometimes, how much older he was than her, how many more years of experience he had, how much more time he had had to learn to carry it all, to craft his perfect mask. He shook his head sharply, eyes squeezed closed for a moment, she couldn’t stop staring at him, watching him, wanting to trace the brief flash of euphoria on his face with her fingers. 

“How did you know?” she asked him, quietly, bracing her arms on the sink counter behind her, realizing now that he had straightened how close they were, his proximity alone made her feel good, made her feel invincible, maybe that was the snow, she couldn’t tell, couldn’t differentiate. Her mouth tasted of aspirin and ether. “What I was coming here for?”

“I know you.” he said, like a verbal shrug but heavier, a shroud, a robe pulled to the ground, a curtain from a painting, she was slipping and falling and sliding down into him as he faced the mirror. 

“What else is it?” she questioned, and it seemed to surprise him when she said, “You didn’t come here just to tell me about the Irish and waste yourself on snow. There’s more, isn’t there?” Tommy quirked an eyebrow, very slightly. “I know you, too,” she reminded him, glancing at the snow, he didn’t use it as a game, he used it as a strategy, like he did everything, everything for a purpose. He was quiet again, she waited for him to change the subject, to dodge, to flat-out leave. 

“I have plans for Rockefeller,” Tommy said, “We’ll need to have meetings to discuss logistics. And I need you to get Alfie on board.” She turned to face him, unsure, like she couldn’t remember if there was another step at the bottom of a dark staircase. “Can you do that?” he asked, it was phrased as a question, and it was, but that wasn’t what he was asking. She nodded, but he cleared his throat. It was the closest he would come to permission.

“Also,” he said, “About the trial. Those men I mentioned, the ones I need to reach. They’ll be attending the same social club in a fortnight. That’s where you’ll earn your thirty thousand.” She did not ask what it was she would be required to do. It was much easier not to know yet, and she wasn’t sure she was currently capable of shouldering any more burdensome knowledge. 

“Goody,” Tessa said, dryly. “A gentleman’s club.” There was a shivering silence, as they faced each other. 

“This is what you want?” Tommy asked, so softly it made her heart ache. He turned to meet her eyes, only inches away, her neck tilted to stare at him. _This life, the pain, these choices,_ she wanted what every woman wanted. She wanted to make her own decisions and her own mistakes.

“Yes,” she said, his expression was inscrutable, but whatever it was burned her with its intensity, made her feel like he was peeling back the layers of her soul, like it always had, irises nearly iridescently bright. He turned, pulled a knife seemingly from midair but it must have been his pocket, released the blade and cut two more lines out of the small pile of white powder Tessa had knocked rather shakily onto the marble. It seemed to take forever before he looked back at her, to her very great astonishment, and held out the rolled note. 

“Welcome to the Peaky Blinders,” he said, facetious and sorrowful and triumphant. Tessa took it from his fingers, felt them brush. 

“I was expecting a blood pact for a moment,” she said, nodding at the knife, Tommy glanced at it in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. He closed it with a quiet _snick._

“We’ve already made one,” he said, Tessa pulled up short, about to take her next bump, her ears ringing as the line that hit them was not cocaine but the words. She remembered the taste of his blood in her mouth, and she did another line. 

  
  


11:37pm 

  
  
  


The gradual crescendo of the atmosphere continued to rise as midnight approached, Emmy could feel it seeping past the door, the music swelling, the faint sound of voices becoming steadily more rancorous. Inside the private box, however, there was quiet; Michael hid a yawn behind his hand. Tommy and Tessa were still nowhere to be seen, Benson had actually fallen asleep somehow, Arthur and John played another silent game of cards. 

“Is this what you do?” Emmy asked Michael, overcome by curiosity. “Wait around for him?” 

Michael’s eyes opened blearily. “He’s got the fucking keys,” was all he said in return, bitterly. Something buried and ancient stirred in Emmy’s chest, the resilient incapability to feel as if those around her were having a lousy time. 

“And how long do I have to wait to be asked to dance?” she asked, shocked by her own direct question, realizing in the same moment that she had nothing to lose. Michael smirked, his square jaw flexing slightly. 

“Alright,” he said, standing. “Come on, then.” And he even offered his hand to help her to her feet. Emmy did not take it, because it felt too familiar, but ducked her head to hide her smile, and let him lead her from the room on his arm. 

  
  
  


11:37pm 

  
  
  


“Do you love her?” Tessa found herself asking, tripping into the question like a puddle, because Tommy didn’t tell you things unless you asked him, and eventually, she was going to have to ask him, molecules were vibrating and when the electric of Tommy’s eyes met hers she had nothing to ground the lightning. He cleared his throat, slightly. Her heart was either pumping so fast she couldn’t feel it or had stopped completely. 

“I tried,” he said, “I wanted to.” His voice was a bit sad. He blinked, she swept some of the cocaine off the counter, whispered a soft agreement. “We all want to choose who we love and how we die. Friend of mine said that to me in the war, never got it out of me head.” 

“So is that it, then? Why you’ve suddenly decided to remove the stick from your ass?” Tessa asked, stomach coiling into tense knots, and expecting her sudden bite to shock him. It did not. “You’re just letting me choose how I die?”

Tommy’s head cocked slightly, facing the mirror but turned to look at her. “That’s just it, isn’t it,” he said, “you can’t.” 

“Well, you could kill yourself.” His eyebrow lifted higher, if she hadn’t known better she would have thought he was amused, they danced around the point like they were on the club floor. 

“Aye,” he admitted, Tessa bit her lip. “But you can’t kill your love.”

“What happened to your friend from the war?” she asked, Tommy’s pupils were blown and endless and there was a very faint smatter of freckles across his sloping nose. 

“I put a bullet in his brain.” There was no waver in his voice. His hand slipped down, brushed her curtain of hair off her shoulder, felt them trail across her skin. His breaths were deep and slow like he was breathing her in, hers were short and quick, everything was charged and bright and thrumming. 

“Tommy,” Tessa said, gravely, deadly serious, “you need some less-penetrative hobbies. It’s as if everyone you meet you either shoot or fuck.” Tommy laughed, once, then rolled his eyes like he could take it back. 

“Sometimes both,” he said, quietly, she could see a dimple flash when he smiled and then it was gone. The drugs were making everything so fast and so slow, it felt like hours that she spent watching him, hovering on her toes, hoping an angel would hold her arms back from him. “Tessa.” He said her name, once, again, it reverberated through her mind like the impact of a shell. He raised her chin under his fingers, less calloused now than they used to be, as if he had been spending less time holding guns, but he pulled another trigger with his mouth like the barrel of a gun she was staring down, “There’s one more thing,” Tommy told her, “You don’t need to respond in kind, you don’t need to respond. I just need you to know.” So low it was barely above a whisper, matter-of-fact, raw, she wanted to tell him _don’t,_ wanted to but couldn’t so much as shake her head, staring like a child at the tops of his shiny black shoes. “Look at me,” he commanded, the hand reached up again to cup the back of her head, just where her skull met her neck, control crackling in his fingers and his voice and his eyes and she couldn’t hold them. “Look at me.” She knew the sound of sirens, she could hear them in her ears. 

“You should’ve found yourself a good man while you had the chance,” he said, “Because none of them will ever make it past me. I never stopped loving you. I won’t stop until my last breath.” 

If the world was balanced on a string, Tessa felt quite sure someone had just yanked on it, because it no longer turned, no longer spun, there was golden light dancing across the tips of Tommy’s long lashes, she took a tight breath through skeleton lungs. Two tears dripped down her cheeks like perfectly placed raindrops, and it was only then she realized she was crying.

“What about after?” she asked him, in a whisper, nearly trembling for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, for an instant his face brightened with a small smile. It changed him so much when he smiled that the effect was slightly hypnotic, like seeing the sky after a year of darkness. 

“There is no _after_ ,” he said, then she saw that look in his eyes, that hungry, familiar, monstrous gleam, “I’m tired of fucking starving. Let it feed, Lolo,” he told her, _let it feed._ His hand was under her chin, tipping her head back, she sighed like she was casting off a burden and nodded, shakily, against his fingers, and he crashed his lips to hers with enough force she had to take a step back against the sink, her golden bracelets clinking against the marble and his skin slipping against her tears. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good news is ive already started on the next chapter. this story is going to be so fucking long


	20. Holy Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you touch turns to gold  
> Fear you like a God, your holy fingers bring me home  
> Roaming through the flames of your embrace  
> Mouthing words of love  
> I demand one more taste
> 
> Holy Mother, help me see  
> Every night he touches me  
> Crawling on my knees,   
> I'm coming clean  
> Holy Mother, help me see  
> Late at night he touches me  
> I'm coming clean,   
> I'm coming clean!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sksksksks let me begin by saying i know this chapter is a long time coming and i do deeply apologize for it; i have really truly not had the time to write.   
> trigger warnings for this chapter include an absolute assload of drugs, infidelity, blackouts, torture, and violence. i promise it's not as bad as it sounds, content-wise lmao it will be difficult to follow but?? what else did you expect from me rlly. timestamps again!  
> also i have waited to use this song for a literal year :) absolute banger

11:40pm 

  
  
  


Emmaline laughed as she spun across the dance floor in a gangster’s arms. She felt both completely terrified and completely free. 

  
  
  
  


11:40pm 

  
  
  


Tessa accidentally bumped a faucet with her hip as Tommy lifted her by her thighs onto the sink, water spilling out of the tap, rushing like their breaths. Neither of them stopped to turn it off. 

  
  


11:42pm 

  
  


The dancers had descended from the stage at the base of the split staircase, mingling with the revelry, one of them trailed her fingers across Emmy’s flushed cheek as she passed and Emmy stared after her, mesmerized. 

“Do you like her?” Michael asked, in her ear, it was hot in the room but she shivered. 

“She’s very pretty,” she thought she said, over her shoulder, Michael sipped smoke through his nose from his mouth like dragon smoke. 

“Do you want her? We could get her for you. Hell, Tessa probably would, if you asked her.” 

“Tessa would what?” Emmy asked, confused, wondering if he was insinuating something beyond… whatever it was he was offering, but Michael only smirked. 

“Introduce you,” he clarified, evenly, “Apparently, Tess is very popular in that particular circle.”

Emmy had been spinning, or maybe that was just the room. She stared at him, trying to decipher the joke, then, 

“Oh, my god,” she said, “You’re serious.” 

Michael stared at her, taking in her incredulity, and then, slowly, he started to laugh, eyes crinkling, she wished she could see what color they were, and Emmy was laughing too. 

“I’m very fucking serious,” he said, amusement still tweaking the corner of his mouth, “She’s fuckin’ mad. And Tommy’s just as. Whole lot of us are.” 

“Us?” Emmy asked, Michael reached for her hand. She didn’t remove it. Lights fluttered overhead like fireflies. 

“Come on,” he said, “Give us another dance.”

  
  
  


11:44pm 

  
  
  


Her heart was thudding in her chest like she had swallowed a pounding drum. It was sending the blood roaring through her veins, the slick friction of Tommy’s mouth sending heat pooling between her thighs. The taps were still running, steam had begun to rise from behind her and she couldn’t even tell if she was getting her dress wet. It felt like what she had imagined fire to be before she discovered it burned. She wondered if she had ever been kissed like this before in her life, and decided she must not, because she would never have forgotten about it. His hands cupped her cheeks, she wrapped her legs tighter around him, felt the dull click of teeth, twisted her fingers into the feathery silk of his hair. And flew. 

  
  
  
  


12:08am 

  
  
  


London’s streets seemed exceptionally dark. She had grown so used to the gratuitous glow of Los Angeles that the shuttered shops and narrow streets looked like they were carved from shadows in walls of a cave, inky impressions rather than physical buildings. There was a deep amber glow on the cobbles, water and oil and warm street lamps. Tessa’s steps stuttered to a stop, she tilted her head back to look at the stars, wondered why she expected to see them through the fog. 

“Fuck it,” she said, and pulled a bottle that looked black in the night from her pocket. 

  
  


11:45pm 

  
  


Tessa arched against him, made a needy noise that went straight to his cock like his mind had clocked out early, erased everything but want, made blinding by the snow. Fog was beginning to cover the mirrors, steam rising in hissing swirls, making red spirals stick to Tessa’s neck and darken, he licked a drop of condensation off under her jaw. Her long, pale fingers gripped the counter with one hand, nearly as porcelain as the stone, the other gripping his tie, she was beautiful even when his eyes were closed. 

  
  


11:46pm

  
  


The faint touch of his tongue tasted of ember, the burn of whisky and cigarettes. He parted her legs and trailed his fingers across the front of her knickers between them, she jerked a bit at the contact and then shifted herself closer.  _ She was standing on a stage, her heavy gown of emerald velvet clinging to her ankles as the breeze tossed it gently. It was tight, but she couldn’t feel it, now, it was cold outside but she couldn’t feel that, either, it registered only in the faint acknowledgement of the goosebumps on her arms. All she could hear, for a moment, was the whisper of the trees, and the serenity was broken, Tessa was turning towards something, the night was no longer as dark as it ought to have been. For some reason, she looked up into the sky.  _ He was hiking up the flowing material of her dress, his lips plush and chapped against hers, the press of his fingers warm against her bare thighs above the stocking garters, she shrugged the suit jacket off of his shoulders and dug her nails into the muscles of his back through the fine cotton of his shirt, gripped the strap of his holster in surprise as she felt the brief pass of his teeth against her neck.  _ Then she heard everything at once, the ominous hum of the plane, the frantic screams of the crowd as they witnessed the truth of Michael’s warnings, a voice shouting her name. A moment ago Tommy had been down on one knee, now, he was shaking her shoulders in his hands. He was saying something. A word, neck straining, the cut of his jaw lethal, the embers in his eyes worse. RUN.  _ Tommy was pulling her knickers to the side, she was thinking that if God didn’t want the angels to fall he shouldn’t have made it feel like this, she could feel every beat of her heart from her head to her toes. And then he pulled away. 

“What the fuck are you-,” Tessa managed, yanking on his waistcoat to propel him forward, but he put a hand on the mirror behind him to stop the motion. The tap was still gushing, they were being swallowed by the billowing steam, trapped in the underground room, swirling against the ceiling and their skin. He stared at her, fingers frozen, she felt like there was static in the air with the gasp of her breath. And he waited, a choice, a cliff. She dove in headfirst. 

  
  
  


11:47pm 

  
  
  


“They’re fucking lunatics, I swear to God,” Michael was saying, Emmy had a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. She would never have found it funny sober, but now, it was just  _ so-  _ Michael continued with a smirk, thrown at her over the rim of his drink like a wish into a pond. “Want to know how he proposed?” 

“He proposed to her?” Emmy asked, captivated. 

“Yep.” 

“Tell me.” 

“On stage, front of about a thousand fucking people. Grand opening of one of his companies, nobody had a clue.” 

“Not the Shelby Motors opening? Colindale, right?” Emmy asked, Michael’s brows lowered in confusion. “I was there,” she told him, he still seemed puzzled. 

“Must not have met,” he said, then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, “I would’ve remembered you.” 

Emmy blushed, hoped the hazy light of the chandeliers would hide it, fiddled with her martini’s olive. “We left early. My husband was in a… quarrelsome mood.” 

His face was even and smooth, unscarred and unblemished and missing the familiar, ruddy flush. He lifted his glass. 

“When you’re with a Blinder, you leave when you fucking want, and not a minute before.” There was pride in his voice at the association, and she couldn’t help her astonishment. 

“But you’re... criminals, yes?” Emmy clarified, “That’s what you… do.” 

Michael just smiled again, away from her slightly as if keeping it for himself. 

“That quarrelsome husband was the one Tessa killed, hmm? Rockefeller’s brother. That’s what Tommy was on about earlier.” Emmy got the feeling he had known this since he had heard her last name, and she didn’t let herself bite the inside of her cheek in front of him, but she wanted to. It was an impolite habit, and one she despised, but she could never quite seem to kick it. The alcohol made the words come out easily, the truth slippery like a fish. 

“Yeah,” she told her shoes, her ribs had fissures, she could feel them when she breathed. The physical reminder of him, with every breath. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. 

“Good fucking riddance, then,” Michael said, He lifted a cigarette whose end glowed like a California firefly, and then his glass. “To freedom,” he said, Emmy lifted her own. She had forgotten she was holding it, wasn’t sure when she had picked it up, when they had moved to a table. 

“Freedom,” she said, when she saw Michael’s lips quirk in reply it sounded like  _ sin.  _

  
  
  


11:47pm

  
  
  


“You’re never going anywhere ever again,” she knew he was high because he was talking, and he never fucking talked, even as he slid inside her, like a vow,  _ don’t let me go don’t ever let me go  _ but she couldn’t speak, it was like getting shot in the throat, feeling him move against her. She would know. 

“No one else hurts you. No one else puts their hands on you. Never fucking again.” His own held her face, fingers firm and gentle on her cheeks, rubbed circles around her nipples over lace, they were panting in steam and breathing it out again, the darkness behind her eyes was beautiful and full of colors. She moaned into his collar when he pushed in again, she heard the shift of his gun with the motion, he hadn’t even taken it off. “This is where you belong. This is where you’ve always fucking belonged.” When she opened her eyes, everything was so bright it was shining, she dripped a few more mercury tears and he kissed them away, both their mouths open and panting, bursting like dying stars. 

“Yes,” She said, because it was always, all she had for him, the blood they spilled for each other was red but it was sweet, he rocked into her and her palm slipped down the foggy mirror behind her. “Yes, Tommy,” deals with the devil were the only prayers she knew, “Tommy, Tommy,  _ fuck,  _ Tommy!”

  
  


12:15am 

  
  


Tessa didn’t remember making it out onto the dark streets. The world was dripping and blurring, she thought maybe it had started to rain but couldn’t be sure and thought she really ought to have a coat and then laughed, because of all the things she ought not to be doing, a coat didn’t really make the list, did it? Then she realized she did, in fact, have something over her shoulders: Tommy’s suit jacket, probably getting wet and ruined. Right. Of course. She had forgotten where the laudanum had come from, like she had summoned it out of sheer will. 

Her father had tried to make her go to church for a while. She sat on the edge of the street like it was a pew, wished there was a state low enough that she could reach that would allow her to pray and feel like something was listening. For a shimmering moment, she thought, through the darkness, that she glimpsed a sheen of dark red, and remembered what Tommy had told her years ago about the opium, that it made you believe in God. Maybe it could make you believe in other things, too. 

“Hi, mom,” she said, just to try it, “Am I dreaming?” 

_ No. You’re awake. This is just what it feels like.  _ Amelia’s voice was low and smoky and American as it had been, it was a shame, really, that all her films were silent. A waste. Tessa wanted to take her to the pictures now, to show her how things had changed.  _ And you’ll never fall back asleep.  _

Tessa’s eyes closed. 

  
  


11:51pm 

  
  
  


Their chests were heaving, breathing slowing. Tommy rested his forehead against her shoulder for a moment, the damp edges of his hair tickling her skin, making her shiver. He reached to the side and turned the faucet off with a squeak, used one of the dainty facial towels to clean her sticky thighs. Tessa was dizzy from the rush, the pleasure tingling through her brain still, her face slightly numb. He didn’t ask her if it was good, likely didn’t need to. He sighed, like a tiny breath of weakness escaped him, tucked her hair behind her ear. His fingers and gaze trailed to the scar on her arm, at the top of her bicep, ugly and warped.  _ She was standing in a green dress under a black sky rolling with clouds like she was standing under the ocean, something shattered in her hand or her hand shattered, there was a gun catching the glow of fire in its cold metal, pointing at her, her heart tugged as the trigger pulled and you say that you don’t hear the bullet that hits you but they’re wrong. She heard it go off, it sounded like her name, but it scared her more to hear him screaming like that than the shot did even though she knew it was coming for her. TESSA! RUN!  _

And a bang. 

Tessa snatched her arm away. Tommy was saying-,

_ She said the baby would have his- _

_ eyes were opening in hospital beds. She heard his voice in her mind. She heard his voice in her sleep.  _

  
  
  
  


????? am

  
  
  


When she stirred, she came to in the empty space of pain there were no words, no sounds. There is an exquisite absolution in agony, while within its clutches, life ceases to hold all other meaning. An irreplicable, unrecallable, inescapable feeling. Unless you were very drunk and very, very high. 

Tessa knew she was in pain, she was blearily aware of it, but it slipped from her mind like water through fingers. Pushed by the tide to the back of her mind. It was the  _ why  _ that concerned her. It smelled gritty and metallic, like automobiles, but missed the sharp tang of the air of the London streets. As she woke, a deeper part of her stirred too, the part that sang at the prospect of blood. 

“She’s fuckin’ blitzed, mate, she won’t even remember a bloody thing,” a voice was saying, a heavy accent. An accent that chilled her, but she couldn’t have said why. Her eyes weren’t focusing properly. 

“He said it’s about the message,” another replied, “you know what  _ that _ message would be?  _ I want my cock chopped off and thrown in the Thames,  _ that’s what, for either of them. This is better, mate. Bet she couldn’t te ll us from Harry.” 

“There’s some things worth going blind for, McGregor.” 

“Shut up. She’s bloody waking.” 

She was. The glimpses and pieces were forming a collage of greys. She was facing a wall. She was  _ chained  _ to a wall- 

“What the fuck are you doing,” she thought she muttered, and she must have succeeded, because a chuckle of an answer came floating towards her. Her body was warm, feverishly so. 

“Let me  _ go-,”  _

“Time to put the lights out,” the first voice said, the accent heavy, Irish.  _ Irish.  _ Her skull smacked the steel before her and the world went black again. 

  
  


11:52pm 

  
  


He was shushing her gently, a hush of wind over grass.  _ Stella’s eyes opened like the birth of two little blue worlds.  _

“Come back to me, love, eh? It’s alright. Let it pass. Shh, it’s alright.” She didn’t realize she was clinging to him, on the ground, like she had stumbled and he had caught her. His suit jacket covered her shoulder, the edges wet from touching a puddle of water on the floor, which was marble like the sink, and very cold. Tessa shivered. Tommy blinked at her, guilt splashed across his ethereal features like blood, he was kneeing in the water- 

“What was that?” Tessa asked, she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. 

“Sometimes after you’ve seen things there’s… episodes. When those things come back.” His voice was stiff and brittle, she unclenched her tight fingers from the front of his shirt. “It’s alright. It’s over now.” 

She was shivering, like all the things she was holding inside her were fighting to get out, the panic and the drugs and the constant need to fight or run. She took deep, quivering breaths; Tommy’s stare was dark and heavy as the surprising weight of his hand on her back. Tessa understood boats tossed about by the waves, the cocaine was making everything briefer and sharper, single snapshots of intricate detail.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, rather abashedly, she was a spool of yarn unspinning. 

“It’s alright,” was all Tommy said, again, with his damp hair turned inky black from the condensation, he looked young in her swimming vision. He kept very still, as if afraid of startling her. Then, out of nowhere, from nothing, 

“Who’s Stella? Some lucky whore you’ve got it bad for?” He asked her. She had just regained her ability to breathe, and she lost it again, faster- like a punch to the sternum that knocked the oxygen from her lungs. 

“What?” was all she could offer, she could hear the bite in his words, couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t approach it past the shock of hearing him say- “How do you know that name?”

“You said it when you were coming ‘round.” The edge was even clearer, now, Tessa remembered with explicit clarity what his love for her looked like, that it breathed fire. It made her feel special, when it should have made her afraid. Then, very belatedly, the meaning clicked into place, and Tessa couldn’t help it. She laughed. 

“Is that a name you typically associate with prostitution?” she asked, and his eyebrows drew together slightly in confusion. 

“Just seemed like the obvious explanation.” 

This time, Tessa didn’t have to ask what he meant. The obvious explanation for her actions. She wondered if she could break his heart again to protect her own, but when she said, 

“Yes. Her name is Stella,” the look in his eyes crushed it anyway. Until they snapped away from her like a string breaking. His voice was deep and frozen when he said, 

“So you have someone else, too,” and it was the last word that felt like a nail through the soft bottom of her foot. Just the way he had meant it to.  _ RUN,  _ he had said, his pupils were dilated and blown and edging out the bright blue of his eyes like a lunar eclipse. Wild animals ripped her heart from her chest and chewed it apart. She could feel it beating, in her ears, in her neck, down to her fingers. She felt, suddenly, quite sick, like she was watching the descent of a bomb she had tripped and lost. 

“I have to get the fuck out of here,” she said,  _ run run run,  _ she was standing before Tommy could grab her arm to halt her. 

“Tessa,” he said, either annoyed or concerned, her steps were unsteady but direct and she did not turn. The mirrors flashed past her as she hurried through the lavatory door, which cut off Tommy’s shout of “Tess!” as it closed behind her, and then things became dark and blurred. 

  
  


11:52pm 

  
  


“Can I kiss you?” Michael whispered, Emmy stalled, her head jerking in a swift  _ no.  _ He pulled back, trailed his lips across her knuckles instead. “It’s your move, then,” he told her, she couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t stop doing it. 

  
  
  
  


11:52pm

  
  


Tessa’s eyes went blank and unfocused, like they do right before death, a dull reaper’s sheen, like she had been-  _ like she had been shot.  _ Her knees locked-  _ she slit a man’s throat and fell to the ground, Von Stein fired and she crumpled, he had to be there had to-  _ and he caught her in his arms before she sank. Like a comrade in the war, and she looked like she had been hit by a cursed gypsy bullet and she had, she had, she had. 

  
  


????? am 

  
  
  


She was on her stomach, in an alley, grit on her tongue, hair splayed against the soot. The grey room was gone. This time, she snapped back, as she did, switches flicked on again, primal and overpowering, no longer  _ run  _ but-

But a presence moved closer, she kept her eyes closed even as she shifted her hand past the sink lining, she could feel the warmth of a body kneeling beside her. 

“My, but you’re a pretty one,” said a rolling Irish lilt, the brief pass of fingertips, almost gentle, “It’s a shame.” 

Her back burned, directly between her shoulder blades. She opened her eyes and he was a shape in the darkness blocking out the stars, features cast in the low embers of the city lights. 

And then she smiled and couldn’t feel it at all, her face numb, her hands, her body. She could feel his confusion, could feel him glancing over his shoulder as if to seek his departed partner’s reaction to her inexplicable expression. 

“You didn’t kill me,” she said, scratchily, surprised, but too inebriated to be grateful, her back burned. She wasn’t smiling because she was alive, really. More that soon, one way or another, they wouldn’t be.  _ A message.  _ The Irish men had even put Tommy’s jacket back over her shoulders before they returned her to an alley, the same one they had lifted her in or one in a different city halfway across the world- Tessa didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because Tommy would find them wherever they were, find them if she didn’t handle them first. Fear swirled in the buried pain, but her veins were humming like they might burst so it came out twisted, not terror, not agony, but certainty. Power. Because of Tommy’s jacket, with the knife in the pocket, clinking against her fingers, right beside the little, empty laudanum vial. She only knew she had started laughing because it made the blood in her mouth bubble.

“You really should’ve killed me.” The man’s silhouette took a step back in surprise at her bizarre reaction to waking on the street, too late, too unsure. She could see his neck, see his throat, see his eyes meet hers, and she plunged the butterfly knife under his jaw with all her strength. He gurgled and gasped and looked so, so surprised, Tessa’s head was spinning like a top  _ Get the gun get the gun get the gun  _ Tommy and Benson and her own memories screamed until her numb hands scrambled at the man’s torso even as he clutched at the wound in his neck with his own, the other man was turning, rounding the corner where he had been waiting beside the idling van, vague and indistinct- 

“Oi!” he shouted, came closer, closer, she needed him to come closer- “Hurry up, man! What’s-,”

He passed the looming light of an upper story window that filtered down from the brownstones onto the grit. Ordinary people, Tessa thought,  _ blue eyes, red hair, over six feet, mid-thirties.  _ Everything was crystalline. She raised the gun, and for a peculiar and minuscule moment, found herself thankful that she had not lived Victoria’s life, promised herself she would not die her death. The figure halted. The first man twitched on the floor at her feet, desperate, gasping, still attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his neck.  _ Thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud  _ went Tessa’s heart behind her ribs, the opium was still flowing strong, she wondered how she was standing, wondered when she had stood. 

“Put the weapon down, eh, lass,” the man said, “you’re not gonna shoot me, now.” 

Tessa couldn’t speak, couldn’t command her tongue to form the words, the man’s figure was woozy and warped and then still again, she couldn’t say  _ Famous last words  _ but she cocked the hammer with her thumb and the meaning was clear enough. The rain drizzled down like the angels were wringing out their robes in the heavens. The man’s hands were raised in a calming gesture, at any second, he would reach under his arm, her back was lit with flames, felt like it was searing, 

“I hope that knowledge brings you comfort.” She lowered the gun from its aim between his eyes, and for a microscopic instant, the man relaxed slightly. And she pulled the trigger. 

  
  


????? am 

  
  


She was in a telephone booth. Her fingers were slick with rain against the dial, slick and red, why was the rain red? 

“Lizzie,” she said, ignoring the protests from the other end of the line,  _ It’s bloody two in the morning, what the hell do you-  _ “It’s important. I need-,”  _ Everything, everything, everything,  _ she needed it all and it was all crumbling- “I need Tommy’s London address.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out its hard to write about blacking out and still have the events be slightly coherent lmao dont worry if you're confused, we'll get the details later BUT basically tess could not have chosen a better night to go on a bender bc she passes out in an alley and gets picked up by the IRA (ouchie ouchie) but they just torture her (rather ineffectually considering how many substances she was on when they got her) and let her go. also.... u kno...... the club bathroom fuck. its a classy night all around for our babies basically


	21. Tear Me To Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bang, bang, fire away  
> The rapture's trying to kill me  
> Pulsing through my heart  
> And pain, pain, always the same  
> Beautiful hurts like crazy when it falls apart
> 
> It's a pretty fixation  
> But it's a wicked temptation
> 
> I know this love will tear me to pieces  
> I know his hands will dig up my secrets  
> It's in your eyes, ah, you fucking liar!  
> I know this love will tear me to pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for drug use, mentions of torture, physical injury (honestly. still not as bad as the show in my opinion, but u know. it's good to be careful if not prepared)

2:35am 

  
  
  


May sat in the car in front of the handsome townhouse with her driver in complete silence. Eventually, Frederick spoke, in his steady, measured voice, the same voice of her childhood. Her lonely childhood. Her lonely life. She wanted to be angry, horribly angry, but she wasn’t, really. She wasn’t even angry about not _being_ angry. She was just… sad. 

“What will you do, Miss May?” he asked her, over his shoulder from the front seat, face hidden by the brim of his hat. May glanced down at her fingers, twisting her mother’s brooch. She shook her head. 

“Hear and speak the truth, I suppose,” she said, Frederick chuckled, a bit wryly. 

“Truth’s a terrible elixir,” he said, wisely. He loved reading, he had been the one who taught her English lessons. 

“More like a bomb than anything,” May mumbled under her breath, rather impolitely. Frederick didn’t comment on her break of decorum. “I believe this is what Thomas would refer to as a suicide mission.” 

“Better to lose with dignity.” His words were soft, but they still cut. She crossed her arms and leaned her head against the vehicle’s window, which was cold against her hair. 

“Yes,” she said, “That’s what I keep reminding myself.” 

  
  
  


2:37am

  
  
  


Tommy was, to put it lightly, not thrilled to see May’s car parked outside of his apartment when John piloted them around the bend. There were several factors contributing to his irritation, beginning with, but hardly limited to, the way the trees past his windows and all their surroundings were little more than dark, blurry smudges in his foggy vision. He was not in a fit state for an emotional confrontation, he would probably be lucky to make it up the stairs into his bedroom without stumbling. And yet. 

“Hey, innit that Lady Carlton’s-,” 

John’s voice was amusedly inquisitive, Tommy put his head in his hands and tried not to miss his fucking cyanide capsule because it truly could never have been a bigger blessing to him. 

“Stay fucking here,” he told his brothers, John looked disappointed but the relief splashed across Arthur’s face fell on the exact opposite side of the reaction spectrum. They could have both gone home, Arthur had a place not fifteen minutes away, but they had shrugged off. Tommy rather got the feeling he was being handled, but he missed his own on the car door the first time he swiped for it, said “Fuck!” loudly, and then slammed the door significantly harder than necessary. He caught the glance his brothers shot at each other from inside the car over his shoulder as he stalked away, which did nothing to help. He straightened his spine, cleared his throat, pulled up beside May’s gleaming Riley and the name alone nearly made him want to grin, victorious- he could still smell her on his fingers. But the feeling faded fleetingly, puffed out like the slam of the lavatory door behind her, as May’s was opened by the driver, who also helped her climb daintily out. Tommy would have thought to do that himself, normally, but his mind was murky as a muddied pond. May had his child inside of her, and all he could think of was Tessa Reilly; Tessa who loved cars and hated having a driver. And he hated himself for it, a little, too. But that didn’t mean he could stop. 

“It’s late, May,” he said, because it probably was. He didn’t really have the foggiest about the actual time, but they were standing outside and it was dark, so it stood to reason. Unfortunately, this astute observation was about as far as his current mental processes were capable of evolving, so he just stood and waited for her to speak. 

“Forgive the intrusion.” He couldn’t tell completely through the shadows, but she did not appear particularly regretful, far as he could see. “I needed a word.”

“Just one?” Tommy dead-panned before he could swallow it back down, the aftertaste was bitter. May’s lips thinned. Even at this hour and in this light, she had a soft focus about her, almost angelic, if a bit frazzled at the ends. 

“In high spirits tonight, I see,” she retorted dryly, Tommy scoffed slightly at the irony. _High spirits._ The rain had left the night crisp like the air had been laundered, the London soot for once held at bay, the reek of the Thames too distant to be discernible. 

“You’ve no idea.” He told her, bluntly. 

“I’m sure I don’t.” 

They stared at each other, and her eyes were black in the darkness. Somehow, May smelled of the color purple, or lilacs, it was hard to tell, or maybe that was just the scent of the flowers being grown in his neighbor’s trellis. He was briefly thankful that he was not vomiting or unconscious, but was slightly afraid of hexing himself for even having the thought. _She was carrying his child. Tessa’s eyes were slits and she was saying a name that wasn’t fucking his._ They needed to talk. Of course they needed to fucking talk, he just didn’t want to do it at this particular moment-, 

“Suppose you want to be invited inside, then, yeah?” Tommy asked, ticking his chin at the building looming behind him. “Before someone sees. Bit... improper.” People were easier to deal with once you got a rise out of them. He had decided to waste no time tonight. May’s eyes narrowed and she frowned slightly, but that was all the reaction she gave before saying evenly, 

“And _I_ suppose you _would_ be the authority on impropriety, Mr. Shelby. Tell me, how _was_ your night?” the Southern accent turned up to full bourgeoisie reproach, wispy curls fluttering in the slight breeze. Tommy drug a palm across his face, wearily. 

“Come on, then. Come in,” he said, waving at her, and diverted most of his attention back to taking even steps to the front door. 

  
  
  


2:40am 

  
  
  


May had never so much as touched or even _seen_ cocaine in her life. It was whispered about in servant’s quarters and in dark halls filled with men powerful enough to get away with that sort of thing, and she had never had wild enough girlfriends for it to ever circle back to her. So it was a bit alarming for her when Tommy lead her up a staircase, took a sharp left into a study, and immediately removed a small blue bottle from his pocket that was a paling comparison to the lightness of his eyes. He tapped some of the white powder out onto the back of his hand, casual as lighting a cigarette. 

“I wasn’t aware you partook,” May managed, past the strange tightness in her throat, past his sharp sniff. She wasn’t sure if she was afraid, but she didn’t want to appear it. Uncomfortable, certainly, now, but when had any man ever cared about a woman’s pleasure? Tommy looked up at the ceiling in something that could have been a prayer or scorn or just the cocaine, she didn’t know. He pocketed the bottle in his trousers, and she realized he wasn’t wearing a coat. Droplets of remaining raindrops sprinkled his suit, and fell to the plush rugs underfoot as he shrugged it from his shoulders. 

“If I don’t, I’ll crash like a steam engine,” he said, factually, slumping onto a half-backed sofa with significantly less of his typical, precise grace. “And believe me, love, you’ll have no one to get your words from after that.” 

The room went quiet, then, very quiet, like the stillness within a library or hospital waiting area. 

“Been trading bumps with royalty, have we?” May asked, cooly, Tommy sniffed once and did not respond, impassive. “You were seen with her, tonight. A friend of mine rang me about it.” 

“Bet that friend leads a fulfilling life,” he snarked, pulled out his cigarettes as if on cue. 

“Do you deny it?” 

“Not at all.” It took him a moment to select a smoke, and it was only then she realized he was also drunk. _Jesus._ Of all the fucking nights he could have chosen to go on a bender. 

“How much have you had?” 

He appeared to find her question amusing, as his lip twitched almost imperceptibly. 

“Enough.” 

“She seems bad for you, Thomas,” May said, she tried to make it gentle, even though she wanted to scream it at him as if volume went hand in hand with admittance. Tommy didn’t answer, but she felt the cutting gleam of his stare sharpen as he blinked at her, still as a hawk. 

“There’s a new threat to the family that just emerged. Tessa needed to be brought up to speed.” 

“And I didn’t?” Truthfully, May hadn’t understood the majority of the discussion that had taken place during the single Shelby company meeting she had attended. She had rather gotten the impression they were loath to discuss the more delicate topics in her presence. She had also surmised that Tommy had only let her attend to ease the sting of Tessa’s return, as she had not been invited to any since. 

“It doesn’t concern you.” His face was shuttered like a window, curtains drawn across the sculpted planes of his cheeks, the steady beam of his eyes. 

“I see. And did you inform her of this new threat through your mouth, or your cock?” From ages, years, lifetimes ago she heard him again, _Do you want to fuck me?_ He did not pause or startle, he just blinked, his pupils wide like a cat. She couldn’t read his face, the beats of her heart were painful and sharp. 

“Look, May, I’ve made me choice,” he said, finally, and had the audacity to sound sorrowful about it and horrible, traitorous tears were welling up in her eyes. 

“You did, didn’t you?" She wished she sounded more incredulous, she wished she was more surprised. "You slept with her. You bastard.” She whispered, she hope it stung, but there wasn’t enough fire in her words for it to convince either of them and it fell flat. He brushed it off with another blink and a slow shake of his head and measured words. 

“I told you I would let you know when I decided. Anything you need for the baby, but otherwise-,” 

“The _baby?”_ May repeated, incredulous, “What _baby_? The baby can’t exist, Thomas, I would be ruined. Surely you know that.” He did know it, she could see it, in the rise of his chest when he sighed. “I’ll have to…,” she realized as she reached the end of the sentence that she had little desire to finish it. 

“That’s your choice,” Tommy replied, unwavering, like it was a business deal, he was closed like his eyes. They opened again, black lashes fluttering from across the room. May was still standing, but she felt oddly unaware of her own body, as if detached from it. “I know a woman. I can make arrangements.” 

“There’s no need,” May told him, May’s mouth and lips told him without her moving them. “I can arrange it myself.”

A flicker of something crossed Tommy’s face, he cleared his throat slightly awkwardly, began to ask,

“Do you… would you like me to co-,”

“No.” May cut him off, another social blunder, she was someone else tonight. Perhaps Tessa was a poor influence on them both. Tommy’s jaw twitched, the only sign of tension on his face. Like it was easy. He pulled the little blue bottle from his trousers again, wiggled it between his fingers at her. 

“Snow?” he offered, perhaps a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. 

“No, thank you,” she told him, her voice was weak. “But I wouldn’t say no to some gin, if you have it.”

His eyes dropped to her abdomen, rose back to her face. 

“I’ve got vodka,” he said, and for some reason it was with those words he chose to add a small, bitter smile. May twisted the brooch in her coat pocket, around and around. She hadn’t taken it off. She hadn’t sat down. She undid the belt at her waist with numb fingers, shrugged it off her arms, unsure of where to go, how to move. There were no maids as far as she had seen, but a fire crackled in the hearth of the house, so it was clearly occupied. It was also hardly an _apartment,_ and to say _flat_ would be a complete lie; it was three stories of dark wood and opulence. May expected no less. Tommy stood to pour her a glass, swaying slightly, and she sat on the furthest armchair from the couch. It was only after he had handed her the crystal tumbler and reseated himself, only after she had taken a drink of the burning liquid, that she was able to remember what she had really come there for. 

“Tommy,” she said, carefully, he raised a dark eyebrow at her, her tongue was dry despite the gin. “There’s something you need to know.”

And as soon as she had finished speaking, the phone rang. 

  
  


2:48am 

  
  


Tommy stiffened like a hound that had caught a trail, May’s blood went suddenly cool in her veins from the change in his demeanour. It was like she hadn’t said a word at all. He ignored her completely, stood immediately; the phone only had time to cut through the tension for one shrill moment before he had lifted the receiver. 

“This is Thomas,” he said, there was a furrow in his brow. May couldn’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, couldn’t imagine what it was saying- 3am phone calls hardly bode well in ordinary life. She much doubted they improved in regards to organized crime. 

“No. What?” Tommy snapped, it could’ve been business, for all May knew, until he followed, “Where is she?” A tiny pause, before Tommy spoke again, faster than she had ever heard him retort. “No, don’t fucking tell me you don’t fucking know. Do your fucking job. Have you called Alfie?” The name was familiar, somehow, but May couldn’t place it. She could, however, wager on who it was who had disappeared. Another moment, then Tommy pinched between his eyes, said, “Fuck,” under his breath. His hair was black and shining in the light, head bowed as if in prayer. “Benson, this is not a good fucking thing, alright? You need to understand our position. Victoria gave up Tessa’s name to the bloody Irish, they know she’s connected to us, she’s in very real fucking danger. Get some men together and start looking. Call me when you’ve found her.” And he slammed the telephone back onto the receiver without so much as a goodbye, the set of his shoulders tight under his white shirt. There was another, sharper, “ _Fuck!”_ followed by something that sounded like something similar in gypsy. 

“Run away again, has she?” May asked, mildly, taking another sip of her drink. She was not afraid. She would not be afraid. She reminded herself of it even as she remembered what Tessa said about the night at the Garrison, that a woman had been murdered. She couldn’t convince herself that she wanted to see Tessa meet the same fate as whoever Victoria was, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness Tommy’s undoubtedly unwarranted concern. The very concern he had been incapable of displaying only moments earlier. “Perhaps you should buy her a leash.”

He turned at her words, handsome features strained and taunt as a snapping thread. He had a terrifying charisma, violent but still, an intensity and focus in his gemstone eyes she had never before seen and wasn’t sure she liked. 

“And you a muzzle,” he replied, venomously, and it cut like a whip. She felt the cruel slice of it so viscerally she winced. For a strained beat, she thought he might apologize, thought she saw a flash of remorse cross his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the harsh words either. 

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, he scoffed very faintly and very scornfully. 

“Beg all you’d like.” They sat at the impasse for a moment, neither willing to apologize. He was turning away from her, to the door, saying shortly, “You can see yourself out, Mrs. Carleton.” 

And then there came a great, distant **BANG.**

  
  
  
  


2:49am

  
  


Tommy ducked, May gave a squeak of surprise and spun to the door the sound had traveled through- 

“What was-,” 

There were noises in the hallway, the study’s door was opening, a face was peeking through, then a whole person, no one May recognized- 

“Annabelle, are you al-,” Tommy was asking, a hand reached out for her, she was shaking her head and looked frightened, one of her fingers was pointing towards the hall and Tommy was reaching for his gun as the sounds grew closer- 

“It’s your brothers, sir!” The slim stranger was yanking his arm down, then Arthur was hurrying through the doorway too, his deep eyes squinting in concern, his mouth warped in a frown under his mustache, he was taking long strides over to Tommy, took his shoulders in his hands and forced Tommy to meet his eyes. Everything was moving very quickly, as if time had tripled, the room seemed suddenly full of bodies and tension. 

“Alright, brother, listen to me-,” Arthur was speaking but Tommy was shaking his head, backing away. Suddenly, he looked smaller, suddenly. Arthur didn’t let go of his brother’s arms. His mouth moved quickly, in a low voice May nearly couldn’t entirely catch despite straining her ears. 

“-Got picked up by the Irish-,” Arthur said, Tommy’s face blanched, his skin deathly pale under his dark hair, white as his shirt, 

“Don’t- Arthur, where is she-,” 

“We’ve got ‘er, Tom, John Boy ‘as her, she’s- she’s alive-,” May caught the hesitation, the catch in Arthur’s voice, just as Tommy did, he had begun to tremble, she could see it in his hands, and she was not expecting the sudden increase in the volume of his voice, rising from a near whisper to a thunderous, 

“ _ARTHUR! WHERE THE FUCK IS-,”_

 _“_ She’s going to be alright, Tom, she’ll be fine, you’ve got to fucking keep it together-,” 

“Tommy.” John’s voice from the hallway was the gravest May had ever heard it. They all turned simultaneously back to the door as the third brother shouldered hastily into the room, he was carrying something, someone, all May could see was the red of Tessa’s hair but it was too bright, too red, it wasn’t her hair, it was- “She’s losing blood-,”

And she was, it was sprinkling the carpet like deadly crimson confetti, John’s hands were stained with it as he lowered her down and Tommy was moving towards them, faster than May’s unfocused eyes could even follow in her peripheral vision, and she was staring down, frozen. Tessa’s silk dress was cut down the back, but all the shades were the same and May couldn’t decipher what she was looking at, where the color’s lines blurred, then Tommy turned Tessa gently to her side and May’s lips parted in horror. On Tessa’s porcelain skin was a dripping, slick carving larger than Tommy’s hand, sliced deep between her shoulders, for a moment, all movement seemed to cease, and May realized with a jolt of nausea what it was; the letter _S,_ bleeding like a dark, winding river _,_ large and deep. Tommy made a choking noise in his throat, for one infinitesimal breath, his white knuckles clutched Arthur’s hand at his collar as if for strength, not taking his eyes from the scene, Arthur was crouching to shake him back and May stood, immobile and petrified, staring at their fingers, both sets of hands already slippery as John’s- 

May’s knees were shaking, she couldn’t stop staring at Tessa’s still, silent form. There was an absolute quiet, fragile as blown glass, as they stared, and the one to shatter it out of all of them was Annabelle. She hurried forward and shook Tommy’s shoulder, and he looked up, cradling Tessa’s face in his hands, 

“She needs a hospital, sir-!” she began, and he was back like she had slapped him. 

“No hospitals,” he said, his voice rough, and wouldn’t explain himself further. “Arthur. Find me a needle and thread, and find it fucking fast.” 

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major,” Arthur’s reply was just as weak, it took him a moment to tear his eyes from the body in Tommy’s arms. He was afraid, they all were, May could smell it in the air like a horse and she was petrified and immobile and everything was shooting by as if she was a passenger on a train- 

Tommy was shaking his head and barking out orders, sending John to fetch hot water, Annabelle for linens, and then they were alone with Tessa on the ground and his eyes met May’s for only a moment when he commanded she hand him the vodka and somehow she did, on unsteady feet with tingling fingers like she had frostbite, Tessa’s eyes were flickering under their closed lids. Another realization struck her, and May bit down her gasp as Tommy’s thumb swiped a smear of blood across Tessa’s neck- her neck, which was exposed, because the shimmering mane of her copper hair was gone. Tommy was curled over her like a shield, May could hear his voice but not the words, not what he was saying- Tessa began to stir, then twist, 

“Hold her,” Tommy said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. May’s limbs were stuck like old clockwork, Tommy had blood on his cheek when he looked up at her, “Help me fucking hold her still!” he snapped, but it took him shouting, “May!” before she could tear her feet from the floor, her eyes from Tessa’s face, the limbs that were streaked with mud and soot and Tessa’s lids were cracking open but there was only white underneath- 

Arthur returned, then Annabelle, Tessa was beginning to moan and no one was paying the least bit of attention to May at her shoulder, trying not to look down, trying not to watch the way more blood seeped from Tessa’s back every time she squirmed under May’s hands- 

Arthur handed Tommy the needle but he couldn’t thread it, his fingers red and wet, the woman named Annabelle touched his cheek and took it from him with a smile that even managed to be comforting, 

“I am your best tailor, no?” and his eyes were dark and desperate and he nodded, Tessa gave a high whine and lashed out a hand and May felt a sting like a hornet under her collar and there was a flash of silver and Tommy’s arm was somehow between May’s skin and the knife and the rest of the cut slipped down the inside of his skin instead of hers and he was prying the blade from Tessa’s fingers without even wincing, May stumbled backwards into Arthur’s chest, staring at the blood on her fingers in shock-

“Come on, now, let’s get you out of here,” Arthur was saying, she had a last glimpse of the scene on the floor before he was turning her around, “Trust me, love, you don’t want to see this,” he was saying, from behind them, May heard Annabelle say, 

“You’ll have to keep her still, Mr. Shelby, I must disinfect the wound and she could hurt herself-,” and then Tessa screamed. 

  
  


2:53am

  
  


Her own, sharp scream seemed to startle her back into consciousness. It sounded more like fear and surprise than pain, but it was evident she did not know where she was. Tommy found himself rather glad, given such a rude awakening, that he had already confiscated the knife- he tried to give her space to breathe, to reorient herself, but she snapped at his fingers like a rabid dog, like- 

“Tessa! Tessa, it’s alright, Lolo, it’s alright,” even while clamping her arms to her sides as Annabelle made a sound of distress over the amount of movement, unthinkingly, impulsively, he switched to gypsy, like she was an animal he was charming. They had cut her hair, the men that took her. He had to fight to keep his voice low and even as hot, seeping rage filtered up through his chest, slowly, Tessa’s eyes were focusing, swiveling about the room. Annabelle had halted her stitching, waiting poised with a bloody needle like a tiny sword. 

“I’ll take it from here. Thank you,” Tommy said, briskly, and held out his hand without waiting for her acceptance. 

  
  
  


???? am 

  
  


There was a knife in her hands, the blade was wet with blood and rain. The world was smudgy like she was looking through a splattered window. She had a knife and a mantra that seemed to have lost all real meaning. _Find Tommy._ The opium only seemed to be swelling, how long had it been, how long had she been wandering along London’s dark, twisting streets? 

She had a knife and nothing left to fear, and that was all that mattered. 

  
  
  
  
  


2:48am

  
  
  


They were having a row about football matches, of all things, when John noticed a lopsided figure approaching the townhouse, merely a dark silhouette under the street lamps, the upper half bigger than the bottom as if they were swathed in a too-large coat. 

“Arthur,” he said, nudging his brother and interrupting his tirade about Huddersfield Town. 

“Who the fuck is-,” Arthur muttered, already making to depart the vehicle, the door hinges squeaky with rain. John followed hurriedly to catch up with Arthur’s long strides- “Oi! What business do you ‘ave here-,” Arthur was asking, but he stopped mid-speech, with the expression he had worn when they passed the med tents in the war. John followed his eyes and felt his stomach drop. The figure’s pitiful, drowned-rat appearance became more and more menacing as she approached- for it was a woman, and a woman he knew well, nearly indistinguishable past the blood and the lack of hair. 

“Is that fucking Tessa?” John asked in an undertone, but Arthur was already demanding, 

“What the bloody hell happened to you?” Despite the rather direct evidence that Tessa was barely managing to remain upright. 

“Get… Tommy,” she said, wincing as she did so, red was streaked across her mouth and it didn’t look like lipstick, the scarlet blackened in the night, a slice above her eye caught the planes of moonlight illuminating the jagged cut of her hair. She took another staggering step, and then- 

“Arthur, she’s gonna-,” John started, but Arthur had already stepped forward to halt her sway. 

  
  


2:53am

  
  


The moment the door had closed behind Annabelle’s retreating form, Tommy made for the top drawer of the writing desk in the study. His fingers were slippery and he could hear her ragged breathing but he managed to snag the bottle rolling around with the letters and documents. 

“Drink,” he said, back on his knees before her like a bloody altar. He didn’t really use the morphine on account of the dreams it gave him, but it would certainly come in handy now. “Bite,” he instructed, pulling off his holster and folding the leather between her white teeth smeared crimson from the slit in her lip, she complied with his orders with immediate resignation, momentarily docile. He had sewed up comrades on the field with less, for a moment, the blood splattered across her shoulders looked innocent as freckles. As he lowered his eyes, the vision was gone. 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, and began to stitch. 

  
  


3:03am

  
  


They were silent in the largest sitting room. From the glimpses May had seen, there were several. She had never actually spent any meaningful amount of time at Tommy’s London house, and was musing over the improbability of the current situation being her first memory of the building to try and distract herself from the shake of her fingers. 

“Do you think she’ll…?” May managed after an indeterminate stretch of white-knuckled silence. John shook his head, staring down at his hands, his shoulders up over his ears like a defensive cat. 

“No,” he said, lowly. “No, Tommy won’t let her.” 

And Arthur nodded gravely, as if that was that, but May twisted and twisted her brooch and held back a shudder. 

“There was an awful lot of blood.” Her voice was a whisper, more an admittance of fear than she had wished. The brothers did not look at her, did not look at each other. 

“‘s’Alright.” It surprised her to hear the comforting tone in Arthur’s voice, the brotherly protection it was seeped in. “Runs on petrol, our Tess.” 

May gave an unconvincing half-smile, and wondered if it was really Tessa she worried for, and not herself. The room went quiet again. 

  
  


3:03am

  
  


Tessa wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was because she couldn’t or she simply didn’t want to, and wagered it was a bit of both. She bore up well, too; maybe a bit too well, in his opinion. She did not so much as flinch as the needle threaded her skin, her cheek resting against her raised, tense arms, eyes glazed but open. He hadn’t expected her to be conscious, wasn’t entirely sure how she was managing it. Her breaths trembled and he was hearing them like the whispers of dropping bombs shattering across the earth, each exhale made it harder for him to keep his hands steady and he had to keep his hands steady and it was _just like just like just like France,_ so familiar it was easy, so horribly, viscerally wrong it was making him sick. Perhaps that was the comedown. 

“How’s the pain?” he asked her, and he had to look at it, had to sew as quickly as possible. It was lucky that blood didn’t make him squeamish. Although if it had, he likely wouldn’t have made it very far in the war. Patches of it were making his shirt stick to his skin. It was slippery under his knees. Her face was so pale he could see the blue veins running under the ivory like patterns in marble. She shook her head slowly, barely. It could have meant _fine,_ could have meant _horrible,_ could have meant she didn’t feel a thing. He hoped it was the latter. He was battling down the rage with endless mental blows because if it took over he would crack and he could feel it and she needed him. She needed him. He tugged on the string and tried to pretend it was the same as fixing an old sheet, and it wasn’t. It fucking wasn’t. He tied it off as best he could, the blood on his fingers had begun to stick and crease. 

“Thirty-seven,” he said, quietly, then cleared his throat. “All done.” Her eyes squeezed closed like a wince.

The violent letter took up most of her spine, from her shoulder blades to the bottom of her ribs. They had branded Victoria, like cattle. A dark, blistered, angry **_PB_ ** placed a bit haphazardly on her shoulder, on her corpse. And a note left clutched in her death-cold fingers that said _Until every truth is witnessed._ He knew that the deep crimson cut wasn’t necessarily worse, but it looked worse. It looked like a warning. 

“You think it’ll scar?” Her voice was thin and surprised him, not only to hear, but to hear the thin trail of black humor in it. He snorted gently. 

“Nah,” he said, easily, “Not a bit. Give it a week, be like it never happened.” 

She smiled weakly, the movement pulling at the bright split in her lip. Tommy dabbed at it with some of the linen, ignoring the blood already soaking the wet cloth. It was that watery, tiny smile that split the dam, he could feel the coiling rage spiraling inside him like a snake. 

“We’ll find the bastards that did this to you, Tessa, eh? We’ll find them, and they’ll pay.” 

“I know.” She shifted, and hissed through her teeth, the gasp interrupting her speech. “I know… where he is.” 

When Tommy had met her, she didn’t know how to hold a gun. The violence in her eyes was not one of the things he felt guilty for. As for the rest of it, well. 

“That’s my girl,” he told her, and his thumb slid across the blood on her cheek. 

  
  


3:08am

  
  


Tommy emerged with blood splattered up to his elbows. For a bizarre second, May thought he was wearing red rubber gloves. He looked like a veterinarian who had just finished with a particularly difficult mare’s birth. She swallowed hard past her dry throat. 

“She’s fine,” he said, gruffly, and May rather doubted it, but was sure, at least, that she wasn’t dead. Annabelle’s lip quivered from her silent perch in the corner. “She’ll be alright.” 

Arthur let out a low, short breath, John ran a relieved hand down his face. Tommy rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand, nonchalant as could be, but it left a red smear. “Mrs. Carlton, you’re free to leave now. I’m sure your driver is tired of waiting.” His tone was polite bordering on discourteous, and May realized with a jolt that now that the horror show was over, she wanted nothing more than to never set eyes on that house again. With great reluctance, she admitted, 

“I sent Frederick home. He had a long enough night as it was.”

Tommy’s jaw twitched. 

“Fine,” he said, “Arthur will take you-,” 

“I won’t be going no fucking where,” Arthur said, firmly, his brows lowered over his deep-set eyes, so unlike Tommy’s large, unblinking and unimpressed stare. “I’ve ‘ad enough of this outside protection. Anybody who wants Tessa can go through Arthur fucking Shelby. Let ‘em try.” He cracked his knuckles, May was catching up, “Let ‘em try.” 

Tommy’s face was blank. _He’s going to kill them,_ she thought, and she could’ve fucking slapped herself for how deeply she had sunk into the denial. She had no idea what he was going to say, and he took his time with it, like always, like the smoothest of seas. 

“Fine." He said again, finally, “She's in the second bedroom. Go guard the fucking door.” There was a bit of sarcasm in his voice, but something else, too. Gratitude. “John, check on Polly. Make sure they haven’t snatched her as well. May, I’ll have a driver take you home in the morning. I have to make some calls.” 

And then he was gone. 

  
  
  


???? am, last night 

  
  


_Her back felt like it was on fire._

Tommy was asking her about the pain, but there was none, there was nothing. 

_Her hair was trailing against it, her dress was touching it, every single flicker was suddenly a flame and she could bear none of it any longer. She had a knife. It felt like dying and coming alive._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll want some fuckin' TROPES??? i got ur fuckin tropes bitch!!


	22. Devil is Fine // Gravedigger's Chant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He come in early morning  
> He go by many names  
> We gonna go home to the flames
> 
> He gon' forgive my sin  
> He promise many things  
> I can't do him no wrong  
> I see him before long
> 
> Little one better find your way now  
> Little one better find your way out  
> Little one better run for your life  
> Little one where you going with that knife?
> 
> The devil is fine, devil is kind, devil is fine, the devil is-
> 
> Wash the dead man's clothes in the creek now, child  
> Wash the clothes till the creek turn red
> 
> You can't run, you can't hide  
> Stay with me!  
> Bring the dead body down  
> Watch yourself!
> 
> Lord don't have mercy for you
> 
> Bring the dead body down, bring the dead body down, bring the dead body down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has two songs for a literal assload of reasons, which i wont babble about bc you don't care and thats okay <3 bottom line is i couldn't fuckingggg decide so i just didn't :) which is also my tactic for most of life, actually. its working great so far. anyway, yeah. two songs today lmao 
> 
> there's triggers for violence in this chapter but like. we fucking expected that didn't we. it also jumps back and forth between scenes and doesn't have locations or timestamps haha im just trying to make it as difficult to read as it was for me to write basically sksks love u guys

Someone had forgotten to pull the curtains, and it was exceedingly bright in the room. Tessa had to peel her eyes open, a little bit at a time, and even then it felt like staring into nothing at all. Slowly, windows came into view, and a sun behind them; shining a glowing and strong high noon. Tessa groaned, and then discovered she was lying on her stomach. This was odd, considering no one with breasts often chose to do so for an extended amount of time, and it was even odder that when she tried to move, she couldn’t manage it. And then she realized she didn’t know where she was, nor how she had gotten there, and forced her immobile, uncooperative joints to submit, sitting up to her waist. She immediately bit back a squeal of pain and surprise.

“Fuck!” she hissed, and her head was spinning, and she was reaching around to her back to try to feel-, 

“Do _not_ pull out those _fucking_ stitches.” A voice spoke suddenly to her right, and she whipped her head around so fast that the edges of her vision flickered with warning black. Black like night, like drowning- _Tommy’s hands on her hips against the sink, empty streets and the smell of copper and a searing, blinding pain-,_ he looked like he hadn’t slept for days and somehow managed to seem all the sharper for it. Like a knife against the grindstone. She dropped her arm. It hurt to lift it anyway. 

“Sorry,” she managed, not _Have you been there all night?_ and not enough. The frost dripped from Tommy’s expression like the spring thaw. He righted himself in the armchair. She wondered if he had been sleeping, if he had been able to. 

“You’re alright,” he said, with a slow blink like a tiny smile, she couldn’t manage one back and her limbs were shaking. 

“Yeah. I’m spectacular.” Her words were dry as ice, eyes on the ceiling. Tommy only clicked his tongue, ticking a finger at her. 

“There it is,” he said, smugly. Each breath sent a wave of pain through her, but she found she had nothing to say about it, because it didn’t hurt like pain, it hurt like anger. Glimpses of the previous night were returning to her, and the more she remembered, the more she wished she didn’t at all. “I sent Arthur to find the one who escaped,” Tommy continued, without preamble. “He wouldn’t leave ‘till I promised to keep an eye on you.” She wasn’t sure she believed this, but did not question him for it, just winced as she tried to lean back on her hands and found it tugged at the stitches like a fish on a line. “What the fuck were you _thinking,_ Tess? Running out into the bloody night like that-,” He ran an agitated hand through his hair, she caught the flash of his knuckles crusted in blood. He looked familiar and feral. 

“I think it’s relatively clear that I wasn’t,” Tessa returned, wanting to cross her arms defensively and hissing through her teeth when she tried, and the truth was that she was not entirely sober even now; she knew vaguely that her back ought to hurt worse, given the amount of blood on Tommy’s hands, and that the sun was a bit too vivid. Tommy scoffed mockingly, like he had expected her to have a better excuse, to have a reason, as if she needed more. Tessa took a tight breath, and it hurt to do, the stretch of her ribs like blowing on coals. 

“And he didn’t escape,” she said, her words were brutal but they didn’t burn her. “The other one. I shot him in the leg so he’d have to find a hospital. I thought there might be some conversations you’d like to have with him. It’s hard to get answers from a dead man, and all.” 

There was silence. Tommy’s eyebrows raised slightly, his lips were dry and his dark hair was mussed. Then he hummed and clicked his teeth. 

“You know something?” he said, musingly, shaking his head, “You’re right about that.” He wouldn’t say it, never to her, anyway, but they both knew. She was in the game, now, and she was a contender. It made her want to bear her fangs and grin. His face was hollowed, the edges of his bones dipping under skin like cliffs and waves. Blood splattered his white shirt, trailed across his forearms. Looking at him made her feel hollow and hungry, and she could not drop her gaze. 

“Tommy-,” she began, despite the pain and the drugs and not knowing what she was even attempting to say, but she was spared by a knock at the door. A voice spoke, rather hesitantly and rather muffled through the oak panels. 

“Er,” it said. “Mr. Shelby, sir, Mrs. Carlteon was wanting to be going home now, if you please.” 

Tommy’s blue eyes stared daggers into Tessa for another, pointed moment, before saying, 

“I’ll be down in a moment, Annabelle.” And another flash of pain shot down Tessa’s back like a firework as she turned to look at the doorway, because the name sounded familiar, somehow. And then the message itself clicked into place like a lock and key, 

“Uhm- exactly how many women are you keeping in this house?” Tessa asked, Tommy dug his cigarette case out and ignored the bite in her tone. 

“Annabelle tends the house in exchange for rent. Makes all of Polly’s dresses, too.” His voice, of course, was supremely unconcerned bordering on flippant. 

“What about Mrs. Carleton?” He took his time lighting his smoke, she ignored the way the cut of his jaw looked as he held it between his teeth.

“What about her?” 

Tessa would have thrown something at him, had she been able. As it was, she just curled her lip and rolled her eyes, which seemed to amuse him and only served to make Tessa more bitter. She could perhaps hoist the water jug at him and likely pop all her stitches and serve him fucking right, what the fuck was he playing at, anyway- 

“So Annabelle tends the house and May tends to you, is that it?”

“Are you _jealous,_ Lolo _?”_ He asked, and his teasing tone was the last straw. 

“Get out,” Tessa spat, fixing her eyes on the ceiling instead of him. Tommy tensed, and then sighed, too smart to dismiss her and too stubborn to obey. 

“My dad always said,” Tommy told her, conversationally, like he knew she was imagining knocking him out cold and couldn’t have cared less about it, “not to put all your money on one horse.” Tessa ground her teeth, her ears ringing with rage. _One of those horses is going to kill you in your sleep,_ she nearly retorted, but Tommy continued casually on, tapping ash into a tray by his armchair. He pursed his lips. “He was a bastard, but he never lost a gamble.” Another slow drag and another blink of black lashes against eyes of ice, a face of stone. 

“And the prodigal son built his success on the back of his father’s advice,” Tessa mocked, but Tommy shook his head in disagreement. 

“No,” he said, easily. “Not this time. And I think if my dad ever saw a filly like mine, he would’ve put every fucking penny to his name on her, too.” 

Her anger receded like the tide, drawn back by the way he was looking at her. Unveiled, suddenly. Intense and raw. Tessa looked back at the ceiling. 

“Who says the horse belongs to you,” she muttered, holding on to her resentment like a lifeline because he was easier to drown in than quicksand. He was quiet for so long so was forced to look at him again to prompt a response, only to find him already watching her. 

“She did,” he said, and Tessa felt a jolt run through her, like the fizzing pain but different, like distilled, potent hope, like trepidation. “When I let her go and she came back to me.” 

There was another swelling moment between them like a musical crescendo. Tessa was full to the brim of it all- she felt so much of everything she thought she would burst. Instead, there was another knock at the door. 

“ _What?”_ Tessa demanded, then instantly wished to take it back; she hadn’t meant to shout at Annabelle. But it wasn’t her who appeared with a creak of wood and a whoosh of cold reality. 

“Sorry to intrude,” May said, and there was a slim cut under her collarbone that looked fresh. Tessa wondered if it was herself who had done it, and the only remorse she could muster up was that she hadn’t gotten May’s neck. “I was just looking for... Thomas.” Her tone trailed off as her eyes slid to him. And then, imperious but removed, “Of course. I suppose I ought to have expected that.” 

Tommy, characteristically, said nothing in response, watching Tessa, thinking about something. Stella made the same quizzical expression when she was choosing which shoes Tessa should wear, but Tessa doubted Tommy was contemplating heels. The room was thick with tension she could identify even through her morphine-muddled mind. 

“How are you feeling?” May asked her. Kindly, really, but Tessa couldn’t help feeling patronized. That, and looking at May made her want to punch something. Looking at May in Tommy’s house, specifically, like she had some kind of claim to make, like she had some excuse for her presence. Tessa wanted her bloody knife. She narrowed her eyes. 

“Fuck off,” She instructed, shortly, and May’s dark eyes widened in affront and searched for Tommy’s, but he only gave a taxed sigh. There was even blood in his hair, his bangs slightly matted, like he had it on his hands and had unthinkingly brushed his fingers through it. 

“Give us a moment,” he told May, who did not seem to be accustomed to being the recipient of his commands. But that’s what they were: commands to be followed. May had no choice but to scoff and turn, the door shutting with a heavy _thud_ behind her. Tessa gnawed on her lip, tasted metal, and remembered it was split too late. 

“Tess,” Tommy said, and his voice was low and subdued. “May’s here because I broke her fucking heart, alright? Go easy.” 

“This is me taking it easy,” Tessa retorted, trying to cover the flash of shame, trying to remember if Tommy had ever chastised her for something like that before. It was the rarity of it that hurt, but also the gentleness in his tone when he spoke of May, and then, “You… what about the…?” Tessa asked before she had summoned up the courage to complete the question. Tommy glanced down at his hands and seemed surprised to see the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. 

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” Tommy said, and sometimes his honesty was closer to cruelty, but his love was too, and their eyes met and Tessa took a shaky breath. 

“Well,” she began, “I suppose you’re in for a very tense drive, then.” Because all the other things she could think to say were frankly fucking ridiculous, and all began with “I” and ended with “you”. Tommy smiled, even with a flash of white teeth, and for a moment she remembered them dripping in blood like he had been baptized in a river of it. Then it was gone. He was standing, and it was all over, and her back throbbed again. As if he had sensed it, Tommy tossed a small bottle onto her lap, and it glittered against the silk sheets. 

“Doctor’s orders,” he said, “I told Benson, so I’ll know how much you’re using.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Tessa grumbled, and he ignored her, reaching into his trouser pocket again and when he removed his hand he was holding the butterfly knife. He put it carefully on the nightstand, and the silver was spotted with brown and red. 

“Keep that,” he told her, “you earned it.” 

“I liked it better when your gifts were cars and houses,” she lied, wryly, and he gave a quick, humorless scoff like he doubted it. 

“It’s all blood,” His eyes were sad, but then blocked from her view as he leaned down to kiss her head like the feet of a saint, “It’s all just blood. Bought and paid for. One way or another.” 

“In that case,” Tessa said, she could feel herself sinking into the pain like a miserable lullaby, her cheek rested against his palm. His skin was cool and smelled like grey smoke and white liquor. “I suppose it’s a good idea to carry a knife.” 

She began noticing that she was spending a lot of time staring into mirrors. Not for vanity’s sake, but for queerness- she blinked and the girl in the mirror blinked back. Three years of blonde wigs had only instilled the sense of identity her hair gave her, like when she hid it, she hid herself. She supposed there just wasn’t much left to hide, anymore. 

Polly was actually quite adept with kitchen shears after giving all the boys their cuts until they had the money to see a barber, and Tessa could’ve paid someone herself. She could pay anyone to do anything, but that wasn’t the point. Polly brushed a few copper hairs off of Tessa’s shoulder. 

“There,” she said, presenting her with the mirror, _blink blink blink_ went the girl in it. “Just like the ladies in the pictures, now.” Tessa’s bottom lip was marred by a dark split that she was praying would heal, she thought the haircut made her eyes look freakishly large and dark against her skin, and it didn’t help that one of them was slightly blackened. Tessa had _been_ one of the ladies in the pictures, but she had certainly not looked like this. 

“Don’t be cruel, Pol,” she mumbled back, putting the heavy mirror down onto the worn table with a defeated _thunk_. “I look like I got drug behind a fucking coal train.” 

Polly smiled a bit, pityingly, lips ticking upwards in a sharp U, and Tessa appreciated being allowed to wallow for a moment. 

“Tommy won’t mind,” Polly assured her, out of the blue, sifting her fingers through Tessa’s short locks. It felt strange on her skull, raw and exposed. “You’re still a right sight too pretty for him.” 

Tessa managed to smile weakly back, and didn’t ask how Polly knew. She had learned not to question it. The older woman turned, hands on her slim hips, to face Tessa where she sat in her chair, careful to keep her back perfectly straight. Some places it hurt to touch. Some places it didn’t feel like anything at all, and those were the ones that worried her. 

“So. When do I get to meet my goddaughter?” Polly asked, primly, Tessa pressed her lips together and then winced. 

“She’s staying with a friend. Things have been… chaotic, lately.” 

Polly nodded, solemnly. “There’s a war coming,” she said, and her voice was husky with the burdensome knowledge, with the fear. “Can you feel it, chavi?” 

_There was a great, billowing fire and the sound of a plane. Tommy was pulling a gun, pulling the trigger, pulling her strings._

“It’s already here,” Tessa said, numbly, and Polly took her hand. 

Tessa had given him a location, name, and physical description. She had all but handed him a trapped rat with a bow around its neck, if they could get him to talk. And Tommy could get him to talk. Arthur had McGregor locked in a jail cell before the sun had even risen past Tessa’s curtains the morning after the attack, and Tommy couldn’t stop picturing the look on her face as he told her; cold and bitter and pale as frost. Unafraid. So he called. 

Someone answered on the third ring. 

“This is Polly Gray,” she said, “If you’re a copper or a priest, I’d suggest you hang up now.” 

“Pol, it’s me. Is Tessa there?” 

A rustle, like Polly was deciding. 

“She is.” 

Tommy paused, impatiently. “Can I speak with her?” 

“That depends.” 

“On?” 

“On whether or not you’re going to tell her about some new way her life's in jeopardy. She’s had enough of that this week.” 

“I was going to ask her to dinner.” 

Another beat of silence, then Polly said, “You swear?”

“Yes.”

There was another break on the other end, then the distant sound of Polly’s voice, then a different one. 

“Tessa speaking.” 

“Hello, Tess. Benson said you were at Pol’s.” 

“Hi, Tommy.” 

“Are you free Sunday night?” 

Tessa was doing paperwork at the desk in her study, the one Thomas had built for her. It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture, and made Benson rather wary about the amount of personal information the man was capable of archiving in his ridiculously accurate memory. But he supposed that not being wary of Thomas Shelby would make a person very stupid. Or perhaps, he thought, while observing Tessa, very brave. Benson found it difficult to look at her, now. Like the shadow of his failures were printed underneath her eyes, in the hair that was just as shimmering and bright but now cropped close to her head. She seemed smaller without it. He was just glad to not have had to see the wreckage of her back. Arthur had commented on it, and even a passing comment from Arthur meant the damage was deep indeed. Arthur had taken Tessa back to Addison Manor personally. Benson had to ensure Stella remained with Alfie until he had returned to Birmingham, despite the fact that Benson had offered to simply pick Tessa up himself. His help had been firmly refused, and Benson knew what this meant. Thomas didn’t trust him anymore. He just hoped to every god that had disowned him that Tessa did not feel the same, and took heart that she had refused to allow Arthur to stay at the house, on grounds of him needing to be by his wife’s side. Benson knew this wasn’t true, and that it was really because of Stella, but he told himself it was a good sign. 

Tessa was staring back. 

“Can I help you?” she asked, a bit pointedly, and he shook his head to clear it. 

“Thomas invited you to dinner.” 

She paused in her shuffling of papers, and he caught glimpses of export lists and deeds. Her eyebrows pulled together slightly. “He told you about that?” she asked, which was a legitimate reaction, seeing as Benson would hardly consider himself and Thomas to be close friends. It was difficult for Benson to see him as anything other than his boss and, often, a twat. Nevertheless, he was a Blinder, and that meant doing as he was told. For the most part. 

“He has a message for you.” 

“About dinner?” Tessa asked, “What, should I bring a gun?” Her eyes drifted distractedly back down before they snapped up to his again and she said, “Oh, fuck,” as the realization struck her. Benson grimaced sympathetically. 

“It’s more like a business dinner,” he admitted, and was only able to convey the information because he was certain Thomas would have done a worse job. That, and Tessa seemed like she had almost expected it. She looked very different in a way he couldn’t explain. The hair and the injuries aside, there was something about her eyes. The look in them. “For the… other side of the company.” 

At that, her eyebrows raised. “I see.” 

Benson’s cap was folded carefully inside his pocket. “Yeah,” he said, grudgingly, and now that his job had been completed, he began- “Tess, you don’t need to do it. He can handle that part, trust me, and engaging with those kind of men only puts you in more da-,” 

But she cut him off with a silent raise of her hand. She had on no makeup, no jewelry, no glimmering waves of hair. Stripped, but powerful. 

“I am that kind of man.” 

Suddenly, he wanted to sink. Wanted to hang his head in shame. “I’m not,” he all but whispered to the floor. Tessa kept very still. “I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight, I-...I failed you.” 

She crossed the room softly, bare feet hardly making a sound on the floor. She put her hand to his cheek and he fought hot tears down his throat. “I’m sorry,” he told her, shakily. She wrapped her arms around his middle, and he rested his cheek atop her short hair. “I don’t… didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I know,” she said, and he felt her soft sigh, and felt all the worse for burdening her with his guilt as if she didn’t have enough on. Still, her voice was soft and kind and gentle. “You didn’t fail me, Ben. You save me every day.” And he knew she was pretending not to notice the tears dripping from his eyes. He swiped at them impatiently, cleared his tight throat, and pulled away. 

“Solomons will be here with Stella soon,” he said, to change the topic, and Tessa seemed to brighten at that considerably. 

“Good,” she said, “I’ve missed her every second. Tell me as soon as they arrive, please.” He nodded rather stiffly and left the room, unable to feel comfortable with the amount of emotion he had just expressed, and the mercy and ease with which Tessa had handled it, and he worried for her with a sick, anxious feeling in his chest. 

There was another soft knock at the door. Tessa jerked her head up, expecting Benson again, but it was only Emmy, looking determined. She put her hands on her slim hips the moment she reached the desk, her eyes roaming over Tessa’s face. She walked like a dancer, but her expression was pinched. 

“What happened to you!?” She demanded, “You just disappeared for days- what on earth did you do to your hair? And your face? Where have you been? Benson wouldn’t say a word, _so_ inconsiderate. I was… It upset me.” There was a slight huff at the end. Tessa found it endearing, but she had been sitting too long and her back was aching and the morphine was wearing off. 

“I took a holiday to hell and the devil saved me,” she replied, rubbing at her temples. It would have been easier to name the parts of her that _weren’t_ sore. Emmy frowned. 

“But you’re okay?” she prompted, dubious and insistent. Tessa didn’t even consider the question. 

“I’d be better if people would stop asking me that,” She stated, frankly, and Emmy locked her lips together, torn between her busybody impulses and earnesty. 

“Alright, well, if you wanted to talk about it-,” 

Emmy’s voice faded out slightly. _Her hands were tied and her face was pressed to gritty brick-_ Tessa spoke to stop the images. 

“I don’t.” Emmy’s eyes fell to the ground, and Tessa cursed herself for the tactlessness, stuttering on the verge of an apology, when the door opened. For a moment, she was confused, because it didn’t look like anyone had come through it, but, 

“Mommy!” Stella squeaked, far above her usual volume. She sped across as fast as her short legs would carry her, little more than a bright blonde blur. She hit Tessa’s legs with a soft thud and Tessa stood to lift her in the air, but her back singed like coals and she gave an involuntary gasp of pain and straightened. Stella’s bright face melted into a frown, and Tessa wanted to slap herself again. 

“Mommy hurt?” Stella asked, and Tessa crouched and attempted to compensate. 

“No, sweetheart,” she said, softly, brushing Stella’s hair behind her ear. “I’m fine.” She pressed a kiss to her baby-soft cheek, as a gruff voice above her said, 

“S’not what I heard, treacle.” 

The sigh of him leaning ponderously on his cane above her coaxed a smile out of her. 

“Hi, Alfie,” Tessa said. “How was she? I can still compensate you for your time, you know.” But he waved her off with a broad hand that glinted with pounded gold. 

“Psh. Nah,” he said. “Unless you’re offering to let her stay forever, right, in which case I would be sorely fucking tempted.” He made a face at Stella across the room, and she giggled back. Benson appeared suddenly behind Alfie, a leash in his hands, and Ripper’s tail wagged ferociously when he saw Tessa and suddenly, the space felt very full. Emmy withdrew slightly, as she always did when there were men nearby, but it was heartwarming down to the bones to see them all together at once, united in concern for her. And Tessa wanted, very suddenly, nothing more than to be alone. 

She had always appreciated the quiet and the solitude of the night. She took Star for a ride and ignored that it hurt too much to ride any faster than a trot, and when she came back, everyone had gone to sleep- Benson must have already put Stella to bed. Tessa felt an acidic rush of guilt, wondering, and not for the first time, if she was a better mother to horses than she could ever be to her own child. She hadn’t exactly had a plethora of shining examples of parenthood in her life. Most of the time, she just tried to not make the same mistakes her own parents had, and even that she wasn’t impressing herself at achieving. She thought about her father. She wondered if she ever wanted to see him again, if she really wanted to find him at all. Tommy would hardly have cared if she changed her mind. She took a swig of morphine and stared at the bottle for several seconds, until the label became blurry, and then she put it down, walked into her bedroom, picked up the phone in a trance before she could think it through. 

“Can you put me through to Arrow House, please?” The girls at the exchange all knew Arrow House. The girls everywhere knew Tommy Shelby. She didn’t mean to be leading him on. Every second she hid the truth from him made it worse, and she couldn’t stop. _What a shock that is,_ she thought to herself. _N_ _ot being able to quit something that’s bad for myself._ She should know better. She had left the morphine in the loo, at least. She hoped that counted for something. 

“Who’s this, then? This week’s lucky lady?” The operator cackled. Tessa heard a snap of chewing gum. “Y’know, he was voted ‘Birmingham’s Most Eligible Bachelor’ in _The Telegraph_ last week, and I must say, from the pictures I’ve seen-,” 

Tessa felt a sharp jab of irritation. “I’ll be sure to never inform him of that,” she said, cutting the flow of words off like a faucet. “Now can you fucking put me through?” An indignant sniff followed her brisk words. 

“Mr. Shelby is busy tonight,” the operator replied, stiffly. “Any unscheduled calls are reserved for weekends and family members only.” _Here we fucking go,_ Tessa thought, she could just out down the phone and go back to her little clear bottle-

“What’s your name?” She asked, the woman on the other end hesitated. 

“Portia,” she said. 

“Portia what?” 

Another, longer hesitation. Tessa’s fingers were fluttering. “I’ll go first, then. Tell me, Portia. What do your gossip mags have to say about Tessa Reilly?” 

There was sudden quiet on the other end of the line, and Tessa breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Please wait while I transfer your call,” said the voice on the other end, professional and rehearsed. She understood why Tommy often opened by playing the name card. It certainly had its uses. Tessa gritted her teeth while it rang, once, her hand was shaking, twice. She hung up. 

  
  


The light by the railroad tracks was dim like embers, creeping from distant forges and swathed in the fog and black coal and white ash like a thick blanket of filth. Tommy had stopped minding such trivial discomforts long ago, and Arthur was silent and uncomplaining. Tommy liked it when it was like this, when they were back to being soldiers, and everything was a simple, straightforward mission. Strategy and scheming. He had had his fill of feeling, as of late. The red _S_ swam behind his eyes for a moment, and the rage crawled out of the cracks in his lungs. Arthur’s rough voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“I can handle this, y’know, Tom. You go check on Tess, hmm? Call ya when it’s done.” For a moment, Arthur looked like he might try to clap him on the back, and then seemed to think better of it. Tommy stared into the tracks that disappeared into the industrial dark, the yard empty and ominous. 

“No,” Tommy said, softly, firmly. “They want to send messages. It’s time we gave them our reply.” 

  
  


She was back to staring at the little glass bottle, still mostly full. It shone on the marble countertop like a jewel, glittering, tempting. Diamonds. The grandfather clock chimed eleven, making her jump, and the telephone rang, successfully tearing her from her stupor. She crossed the bedroom to it, stared at her miniscule, dim reflection in its gilded surface, and waited, and answered before she could jerk her impulsive arm back down, and cursed herself. 

“They said you called,” Tommy’s deep tones told her, “You alright?” 

She struggled, suffered. She had left the bottle on the counter, but it was calling to her. So she decided, for once, on the truth.

“I just wanted to hear your voice.” 

He didn’t respond to that, and she hadn’t really expected him to, but she still hadn’t come up with anything to follow it with and so felt stupid anyway. 

“How’re the stitches?” Tommy asked, after a pause she couldn’t interpret, which was unusual of him. He didn’t frequently inquire after other people’s wellbeing. Or other people. She wished she had a different answer. 

“I, um. Can’t really feel them, actually.” Her admittance was followed by another short pause before he said, 

“Could be the morphine.” 

“Could be, yeah,” she agreed, even though they both knew it wasn’t. Tessa didn’t really care about losing sensation in her back, but she was rather afraid of the scar. She hadn’t even looked at it yet. Benson helped her bathe and replaced her bandages with dutiful hands and apologetic silence, and she otherwise pretended the wound didn’t exist at all. 

“Benson tell you about dinner?” Tommy asked, and her teetering moment passed. Tessa hummed slightly in confirmation. 

“It sounds to me,” she said, thoughtfully, “like you want my help again.” She wound the telephone cord idly around her left thumb, too eager to hear him speak. Strung out, she was, and concerned about the comedown. 

“I was actually going to ask you to borrow your dog, but after some consideration I’ve decided I want you there as well.” Tessa held back a scoff, and his tone was heavy and light at once. 

“You wanted Ripper?” she asked, curiously. “Expecting trouble, are we?” 

“Generally, yes,” Tommy said, with a short exhale, and it was only then that Tessa realized how exhausted he was, like he was being drug through mud. 

“When is the last time you slept?” she asked, the receiver tight to her ear. He made a dismissive noise and said, 

“I just got in,” which didn’t answer her question at all. She could see him in her mind’s eye, his suit jacket draped across the back of his chair that he stood behind, or the desk he sat at. 

“From where?” she wondered, and knew he would evade if he didn’t wish to tell her. He cleared his throat. 

“Church,” he said, “Took confession with Arthur. Made the priest shit his holy robes with our stories, got told to never fuckin’ come back.” 

“Sure,” Tessa laughed, the flickering pain spread across her back like lightning. The fact that she could both be numb and in agony infuriated her, and she bit her tongue to prevent herself from hissing through her teeth. From the other end of the line, she heard the click of a lighter, and it made her crave her own cigarettes as well. As she grabbed her case, she said, “Alright, then. Let’s talk business.” 

“When us men came back from the war, we weren’t boys anymore. Had too many skills they had given us that made us good at being bad, saw too much shit to give a fuck about supporting our country’s causes anymore.” A gap in his words as he inhaled, and she copied him, mindlessly. “We always had the bookkeeping, since before the war. Just backstreet burglars with no weapons and no shoes. But when we came back, we all had guns. The boys and I started offering protection. Got lucky with our clients and our racetracks, and now…” He coughed slightly. “Now’s the time to ask. If there’s anything you’d like to know.”

“It’s just another company,” Tessa said, succinctly. “Right? Cocaine and beatings and fixing races instead of cars and oil and the stock market.” 

“Technically,” Tommy replied, blithe and deep and brittle as bone. “But some would say they’re different worlds.” 

“They’d be wrong. They’re not.” The cigarette was dwindling, she could feel the heat of the tip against her fingers. She pinched it between her nails, and almost laughed. She had been chained to a fucking wall and hadn’t broken a single one. Silence echoed across the miles between them, but she almost felt him there, could almost see the approval flickering in his eyes. Tessa understood how Michael felt. It was a fine feeling, earning Tommy Shelby’s respect. 

“I agree.” She found she was rather nervous, but his voice was entirely calm, and it steadied her. She had been dealing with dangerous people for years. At least gangsters were open about it. Tommy continued. “First things you should know. If I give you an order, you don’t think about it. You don’t question it. You just obey. Otherwise I’m taking Arthur. Second, these men will not take kindly to a woman’s presence, so you'll have to convince them. The only way to take down Rockefeller is with the whole country on our side. And you know his weaknesses better than anyone.” 

“Yeah,” Tessa said, bitterly. “I know he doesn’t have any.” 

Tommy blew out a short breath in a half scoff, but she was serious. She would have already told him, otherwise. But Edward didn’t seem to grieve the death of his brother in the slightest, would have thrown Emmy to a death by drunken fists in a heartbeat. Tessa used to think that becoming like Thomas was a fate to avoid, now, she realized she had been wrong. It was Edward she never wanted to emulate. 

“I’ll pick you up at six.” 

“AM?” Tessa blurted, incredulously. He didn’t laugh, but his dark accent was brightened by humor. 

“No. I’ll not have you fucking killing anyone for a while.” She became grave, suddenly, as she remembered. _Bullets in the darkness, alleys and fields and farmhouses and fighter planes over her head-_

“Did you find McGregor?” An inhale from the other end that was sharp and tight. 

“I did,” he said, and did not elaborate. 

“And? What did he say?” she prompted, but he was never very generous with the details. 

“He got what was coming to him,” was all Tommy said, and Tessa huffed. In on both sides of the business, now, and he was still keeping secrets about things that concerned her. She supposed she wasn’t really one to talk. She thought of Stella again, guilt wriggling in her guts. He seemed to interpret her pause differently, because, 

“It’s late,” Tommy said, factually. “I should let you go.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Tessa said, immediately, unthinkingly. It was something shining and idiotic like hope that spoke for her, but the same something had claws and fangs and want. May was gone, now. Maybe, just _maybe,_ he would forgive her. She heard his quiet exhale. 

“Alright,” he agreed, and she heard settling noises as if he had sat down. She wondered if he would stay on the line all night with her if she had asked him to, and wondered at how terrifying he would be to her if she didn’t hold such a strange power over him. It wasn’t something she took for granted, but it was unfortunate that it was true of him as well. 

“Thank you,” she told him, in an undertone. “For saving my life. I meant to say that sooner.” 

“Don’t need to say it at all,” Tommy responded, too dismissively, sounding as close as he ever came to clumsy. “Got blood all over me fucking floor, though. Annabelle’s been in a right state over it.” 

Tessa hummed. “So has Ben. People won’t stop asking me how I’m doing.”

“Good thing I wasn’t going to.” It was rare, the joke in his voice. Tessa smiled. 

“Asshole,” she said fondly, and lit another cigarette. 

Philip McGregor arrived with a sack over his head, handcuffs, and bandaged leg. Tommy considered putting a bullet in his other knee the moment John and Isaiah appeared through the dense fog, like the reapers ferrying a soul to the underworld. He didn’t rule it out. McGregor struggled wearily, and John smashed an elbow into his diaphragm as he hauled the captive closer, making the man gasp. 

“Put him down,” Tommy said, and John forced McGregor to his knees. Tommy saw Arthur nod at Isaiah in the corner of his eye, the dismissive jerk of his head. Isaiah turned wordlessly, the crunch of his shiny shoes grating against the gravel underfoot. Arthur pulled the mask off the man’s face, and Tommy hated everything he saw, he saw Tessa’s skin split open behind his eyes, like a deer waiting to be cleaned. The man blinked furiously, then his eyes widened.

“You’re Tommy Shelby, aren’t you?” He whispered, and Tommy nodded, slowly. 

“You know me, then.” The man gave a frantic, frightened jerk of his head, up and down. In the distance, a train called. “So you know how this works.” Silence followed his statement. The man swallowed, hard, now his head was shaking back and forth, back and forth. “Here’s how it goes, Philip. When I ask questions, like the one I just gave you, you answer them. And the longer we talk is the longer you still can, so if I were you, I’d fucking start. Now tell me. Who hired you?”

Tommy felt rather than observed the confused glance Arthur and John shot him, but it didn’t matter. Right now, all that mattered was the blood sizzling like boiling poison in his veins, the thumping of his heart, the tide of static in his ears singing _kill kill kill_ like a siren’s song. He hadn’t shot a man since Colindale. He hadn’t needed to. He left it to his brother- it’s what Arthur was best at, after all. In the war, Tommy had done terrible things to survive. He hadn’t doubted himself then and he didn’t now, but he had thought he had left it behind in France. Or he had wanted to think, wanted to believe, and always known the truth. Colindale was just proof. Given the opportunity, given the choice, he would do it again. So usually, he didn’t give himself the option. But this was not usually, and the red had been stuck behind his eyes for days like the imprint of a glowing sun. But there was no sunlight now, only the indistinct outline of the shrinking moon that gave in to the night’s encroaching darkness. McGregor was trembling in his cuffs, making them clink together, seeping fear and false bravado like piss. He spat at Tommy’s feet, spittle landing on his shoes, and before Tommy could restrain himself he stepped forward and kneed the other man in the underside of the jaw so hard his head snapped backwards unnaturally. Pain bloomed across Tommy's right leg like electricity, but it was worth it, so worth it, that he had to force himself backwards before he did it again. McGregor’s head lolled, supported only by Arthur and John’s grip on his shoulders. He wheezed and spat out a bloody tooth that shone brightly against the dark backdrop of coal littering the ground. 

“Once more, mate, with feeling,” Tommy said, cheerfully enough to be mocking, “Who hired you?” He asked, and another whistle blew. 

She was looking into her own reflection again, and it was quickly growing old. _I can’t imagine blonde suits you,_ Tommy had said, once. She watched her own brow furrow. 

“Fuck,” she said, and tugged off the wig. 

“Getting ready for your date?” Asked a voice from the doorway, and she tried to twist around at the vanity to Benson but her back tensed like it had been shocked, so she met his eyes in the mirror. Stella was sitting on his shoulders with her little hands wrapped in the longer top of his hair, kicking her legs slightly against his chest. She waved happily when Tessa blew a kiss at her before turning back to her inspection. She supposed the wig didn’t add much, anyway; Polly had really performed something of a miracle on her hastily chopped hair, and the bruises had begun to fade. 

“It’s not a date.” She was swiping on lipstick as she said this, which she felt took away from the statement somewhat, but it was good to see the hint of a smile on Benson’s drawn face. He was going to start getting wrinkles from frowning so much. “I’m being introduced to my new business partners and enlisting their help in our current endeavors.” 

“To Tommy Shelby, that's the height of romance.” Benson grunted and hefted Stella from his shoulders, and she came to Tessa’s side. Tessa smiled at her softly, and pressed a kiss to her head. Stella’s wide, round eyes peered up at her, and a voice was saying, _I never stopped loving you_ and a gun was going off and diamonds were shattering against her neck. Tessa looked away, sick with it, squeezed her eyes closed and took a stuttering breath. 

“Stella, baby, there’s something mommy needs to tell you about. Someone.” She took Stella’s hands in her own, marveling at the similarity between their fingers, like someone had cast her own and scaled them down and created a perfect, tiny porcelain doll. Tessa could feel Benson watching her intensely, and her throat was dry. Stella’s rosebud lips were tilted in a worried frown. “The person I’m going to see tonight… he’s your dad. He might like to meet you sometime. Would that be alright?” There was a contemplative pause and Stella stared hard at a spot past Tessa’s arm. Finally, she asked, bewildered, 

“Dead?” and it was only then that Tessa remembered that particular lie. 

“Ah, no,” she replied over Benson’s snort, wondering how the fuck Stella, a child of three, had been able to recall a conversation she herself had forgotten. “No, he’s not actually, uhm…” She trailed off and passed Benson a desperate glance, taking in his smirk and crossed arms with irritation. “You _said_ you would help me with this!” Tessa implored desperately, and he raised his hands in a defeated gesture. 

“But you’re doing so well on your own,” he dead-panned, and Stella was tugging on the sleeve of Tessa’s dress, ignoring them. 

“Mommy, I wanna see the dead man! Is he nice?” Tessa winced a bit before she could stop herself, and Benson’s grin became a poorly-concealed snort of laughter as he watched her fumble mercilessly for a reply. 

“Yeah, he’s, uh- he’s really... nice,” Tessa found herself saying, agreeably, mouthing “ _I don’t fucking know!_ ” over her daughter’s head at Benson’s incredulous expression. His eyebrows had crept up like wayward caterpillars. Stella resumed her tugging, insistent. 

“Will he paint with me? Like Uncle Alfie?” 

“Er,” Tessa managed, haltingly, unsure how much she could fib without it resulting in her daughter’s disappointment. 

“Oh, yeah,” she heard Benson mutter, sarcastically. “He’s a real artist.” 

  
  


“Strip him,” Tommy said, John flicked his toothpick in black humor and Arthur tutted, taking McGregor by the bloodied face. 

“Hear that, scum?” He whispered, “It’s called an eye for a fucking eye.” Tommy’s brain went out like a radio channel. All was quiet. He couldn’t hear the screams, and he carved a red masterpiece. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's actually impressive that i even managed to choose TWO songs for this chapter bc i had like 982437634 to choose from that i wanted. someday i'll release the draft version of the playlists they're just such a shit pile rn. also, huge sksksks BUT as you are aware i am always eager for more song recommendations so if you have any, drop 'em!


	23. I Shouldn't Tell You This, But I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was in the darkness, so darkness I became

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up hoes!! i live! couple of prefaces about this chapter:  
> 1\. it's long as fuck which is why it took longer than fuck to write lmao you're welcome  
> 2\. im done trying to pick songs sksksks this whole "one per chapter" thing is and has always been way too restricting for me, so im going to have one per scene or section instead bc it is IMPOSSIBLE to choose just one if they're this long. also i like coming up with chapter names sometimes as opposed to using song titles. yes im changing this after literally hundreds of thousands of words :) this is my playground and you guys always applaud me sitting here, throwing around sand. so really, it's your fault for encouraging me doing ~whatever~ all the time  
> 3\. people have been requesting fluff and i did my absolute damndest to deliver. you will, of course, have to pay for it eventually <3 but i hope you enjoy it in the meantime lmaooo love u kiss kiss kiss

_1._

_SHE_

  
  


There were two empty chairs at the table. Alfie sniffed and checked his pocket watch. Tommy always made them wait, seemingly for no other reason than because he could. Alfie trailed his eyes captiously over the faces of his colleagues. Not only was Tommy behind schedule, but he had made them all drive for several eternities to the large, airy seaside cottage outside of Southend-on-Sea that Alfie was currently occupying. Neutral territory. Nice place, really. A bit bare, like a sunwashed bone. Not nice enough to keep him from tapping his knee impatiently, despite it being sore. His cane kept a light, steady rhythm with his foot, filling the silent room. 

“So where the fuck is he?” Sabini demanded. He had always been snippish like that, even when they were lads. Alfie saw two of the other men peek at their watches to confirm the Tommy’s tardiness, and likely that feral brother of his, too. Alfie didn’t much mind waiting, himself. Not that he wouldn’t pretend otherwise, but the sun was setting across the water through the windows, the sound of the waves swishing in past them. It would have been impeccably, delightfully tranquil, if he wasn’t at a table surrounded by the most notorious men in the streets of England. Sabini, who was eyeing the open seats distrustfully, Changretta, wrinkled as a sack of balls but wry as a badger, Chang, and the nameless representative from the Titanic, who was glaring at the unmoving door as if it had caused him personal offense. The room was thickening with tension like smog. Alfie gave a halfhearted wave of his hands. Mostly to agitate them further. 

“He’ll get here when he gets here, won’t he, and not a minute before that, so why don’t you just sit pretty and imagine you woke up this morning two inches longer where it matters, yeah?” Alfie said, and Sabini purpled instantly, like a time-warped grape. 

“The pikey king calls us out here, in the middle of nowhere, for nothing-,” As if he had spoken it into existence, there was a deep, velvet rumble of a luxury engine in the sandy drive. Alfie knew the sound because it was the same of the car that Joseph drove him ‘round in, a glittering Shelby, gifted, as promised, from its namesake. Kiss arse. The car’s doors closed and the front to the cottage opened, distant and creaking. There were footsteps on the stairs, two pairs, including and most notably, the distinctive click of high heels on the worn wood. Alfie’s eyes slid to the open chair just as Changretta’s did the same; the old man’s beady stare was like that of a crow. Alfie averted his gaze and instead watched the nameless man closely, saw the quick draw of his heavy, dark eyebrows as the _click click click_ drew nearer. It could be the aunt, but somehow, Alfie doubted it. A gull cried in the distance, mournful and soothing, but the pressure in the room dropped like an arctic plunge as the door opened and Tommy stepped into the parlor. It was a large space with high windows, but the only furniture was the large, ashen table with a wood grain that felt as smooth as the sand on the beach. The men all looked up. Only one figure entered the room. 

Tommy did not give so much as a perfunctory, “Thank you for driving this absurdly long distance to meet me here, your presence is deeply appreciated,” or even, “I apologize for my delayed arrival.” In fact, he did not speak at all, or look at any of them, just strode to the space at the wide end of the oval table and sat down on the straight-backed chair, smacking a briefcase down on the table before him. If the tones of his surroundings hadn’t been so divine, he could’ve been seated on the throne of hell. Alfie cleared his throat, impertinently, and Tommy finally spoke. 

“Good evening,” he said, and some of them were glancing over their shoulders at the double set of doors, to the hallway beyond the one that had been left open. “As you may have guessed, someone else will be joining us today.” There was a pause before his rumbling tone continued, like he was bracing for impact. “She has information crucial to the war effort.”

It took a moment, before there came the inevitable- 

“ _She?”_ It was the man who Alfie didn’t know. The only one who didn’t know better. Even Sabini was keeping his crooked mouth shut tight, likely assuming that Polly Grey was waiting outside the doors. Alfie was familiar enough with Tommy’s family to know the sort of people he allowed into his inner circle, and familiar enough with the protege in question to not find it altogether surprising. But it seemed he was the only one. Around the table, mutterings broke out like a breeze scraping across leaves, but Tommy was resolute, tranquil to the point of boredom. 

“Yes.” 

There was a baffled pause. Titanic’s face screwed up like he was about to spit, Tommy’s face went cold with warning. Alfie enjoyed a good spat, it was true, but they weren’t likely to make any progress in the efforts against His Facistness Mr. Rockefeller if they were too busy bickering amongst themselves over something as inconsequential as the presence of a person with a set of tits. They were nicer than Changretta’s saggy old man clonkers, anyway. Alfie didn’t see what all the fuss was about. 

“War effort, hmm? What war is this, Thomas?” He piped up, and Tommy shot him a withering look for the lack of professionalism, like Alfie hadn’t just done him a favor. Alfie adopted a face of complete and utter innocent befuddlement, Tommy blinked irritatedly and looked away. He was too easy to goad, sometimes. 

“That’s what we’re here to discuss. Tessa,” Tommy called, there was an uncomfortable stir at the name, as the men turned back to the door. “Join us, please.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Tessa was wearing a suit. It was fitted tighter than a man’s would ever be, and it took Alfie’s eyes a while to travel up her form before he could really consider anything else. It wasn’t until then that he remembered the haircut, what had been half a meter of shimmering auburn clipped at the base of her skull, only a few inches of waves remaining. Then Alfie skimmed over the fading bruises, with a nasty, ominous feeling, her pearly skin dappled across the cheekbone, her right eye darkened with the shadow of an impact, her bottom lip split. Ripper loped at her side, his large head turning to survey the room, black nose sniffing suspiciously. An incredible, pressing silence fell across the room, Tessa’s heels clicking alongside Ripper’s nails. The gathered men’s stares were piercing as knives, her back was straight as an arrow. Tommy stood and pulled her chair out for her as she approached, which spoke more than anything he might’ve bothered to actually articulate. As vexing as Alfie found the man’s frequent muteness, he would admit that most times, Tommy didn’t really need to, so he simply didn’t bother. He spoke through those eerie eyes, which observed the table’s occupants with as much emotion as a stone wall, burning blue like the center of a flame. 

“We were told not to bring weapons to this meeting,” Sabini said, as Tessa sat, Ripper following her movements soundlessly. At least he wasn’t fucking stupid, Alfie reasoned. Hardly a philosopher, was he, but able to recognize a threat when he saw one. Sabini’s pinched face was cold as he watched Tessa’s reaction, but she only reached down and ran red nails across Ripper’s black ear. 

“This is actually called a ‘dog’,” she replied, her American accent gripping the vowels, the snark lifting the edges of her full lips. Sabini’s curled, whether because of her words or her voice or her gender, like he found every facet of her being repulsive. Which was a miscalculation bordering on idiocy, if only because all of those traits were objectively redeemed by her looks alone. Alfie snorted and looked to Tommy, who gave absolutely no indication he had heard the interaction at all, but Tessa hardly needed his help. Alfie remembered the first time he had met the redhead, when she had demonstrated her spectacular right hook, and smiled fondly to himself. The heavy-browed Titanic boy was seething at Tommy’s ambivalence. 

“What the fuck do you mean by this, Shelby?” He spat, Alfie caught Tessa’s glance and eye roll as the man continued, gearing up like a wind-up doll. “You’ve brought your pets to parade-?” But he didn’t get to finish his taunt. Tessa’s face hardened. Alfie saw her fingers release Ripper’s collar, saw Titanic notice that the dog had stood, saw the fear flash in his rodent’s eyes as Tessa said one, firm word. 

“Gabh.” 

Ripper lunged, his powerful hindquarters launching him almost vertically upward onto the smooth grain of the table. The man was too slow flinching back, shouting in alarm, 

“Fan,” Tessa sang, the dog’s nails slipped across the wood and his movements stilled to a trembling stop to halt his momentum. Its mouth was open, growling, poised around his neck like a vice waiting to close. Alfie could see it’s dark gums, the white fangs, the vicious rumbling lifting its muzzle. The man held impossibly still, as did the rest of the room- like a race before the starting gun. His eyes were white with fear and rage. 

“What’s the matter?” Tessa’s voice was cold. Her palm was open, fingers splayed, Alfie saw Ripper watching it and thought he knew what happened when she closed her fist. “You don’t want to play?” Ripper growled. One of his canines was so close to the Irishman’s throat that drool dripped onto his neck. “I am no one’s pet. You would do well to remember that.” She lowered her hand slowly, Ripper gave one last, warning sound between a bark and a growl and drew his open jaws away from the man’s throat, which was so tense the veins were standing out like rivers of fear. Tessa’s face was void under the bruises, of weakness, of pity, there were three vertical scars running down her throat too, but they looked like strength. Hard fought, hard won, and merciless. Sabini had shrunk back against his chair, a murderous gleam in his eyes, he had even opened his fat mouth again before his eyes slid back to Thomas, whose expression was ice. 

“Anyone else who has a problem with Miss Reilly may speak freely.” His voice was dark like storm clouds, arrogant and assured. “But know that it will be the last time you do.” Tommy had remained standing, probably to remind them all that he considered them below him. Alfie outranked him, technically, but not in the game, and the command was clear in his tone. No one so much as breathed. He cleared his throat. 

“Good.” He said, as if his introduction had gone off without a hitch, beside him, Tessa’s crimson nails tapped unconcernedly against the arm of her chair, Ripper returned to crouch at her side where Alfie could no longer see him. Tommy clasped his hands behind his back, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “It’s come time,” he told them, ignoring the bristling tension in the room and Sabini’s wrathful energy, “for some new alliances.” 

  
  
  
  


Tommy was talking as he drove, the breeze fluttering through his dark, feathery hair. 

“Chang employs women in his organization and the Changretta matriarch is given a place of deep respect in the family, they’re unlikely to speak up against you. Fuck knows you’ve got Alfie wrapped around your pretty little finger,” he said, musingly, as he maneuvered them around a bend. “It’s Sabini and the Titanic who’ll pitch a fit. Don’t go expecting a warm welcome, eh?” _He thinks my fingers are pretty,_ Tessa thought, stupidly, and gave herself a mental smacking. 

“I never do. The Titanic?” She asked, trying to gather as much information as she possibly could, trying to prepare so she didn’t come off as incompotent. She doubted that would help with her reception. 

“Irish.” He caught the shocked, nauseated expression she shot him out of the corner of his eye, and continued, “Unaffiliated.”

“Too bad,” Tessa said, past the ash in her mouth, and wondered when her bravado had stopped being false. Wondered when she had started taking the dark, twisted things and turning them from fear to rage. Wondered if she always had. She had the sudden impulse to scoot closer to Tommy on the seat, but his face was impenetrable and she couldn’t determine his mood. She wasn’t nearly as nervous as she ought to be, her mind numb as her back. The morphine helped with both. She reached out a hand to bum one of Tommy’s cigarettes, for no reason other than to taste him, and his cerulean eyes danced over her like raindrops before returning to the road. Ripper panted happily in the back seat, eager as ever to be going for a drive. For a lurching, doomed moment, Tessa imagined Stella beside the huge dog, all of them on a trip to the countryside, idyllic and familial and an image that disappeared from behind her eyes before it had even fully formed. If that was the life either of them really wanted, they would have had it by now. She forced her hazy eyes to refocus, gave in to the tempting distraction, and slid across the seat to Tommy until their legs touched. _Precaution,_ he had said, yet she had none of it when it came to him. His eyes didn’t leave the road, but she saw the amusement flickering in them, the loosening of the tightness around his mouth. 

“The second one of them starts, set Ripper on him. They won’t respect you if I give the order. Just remember,” he said, as if reminding himself more than her, “they’re only the most dangerous criminals in England.” She snorted slightly. 

“No,” she corrected, “the most dangerous criminal in England is driving the car.” 

“And that doesn’t worry you, eh?” 

“That’s why I’m not worried.” 

And to her surprise and pleasure, Tommy set his hand on her knee. 

  
  
  


It was easy to identify the men based on the descriptions Tommy had given her of them, so she started there. Chang, who was the only person Tessa had ever seen who could have challenged Tommy in a competition for the sharpest dressed man she’d ever seen. Sabini, who looked like an Italian bulldog, complete with beady eyes and underbite and scowl. Alfie, who gave her an enthusiastic wave as she entered, reliably cheerful about the heavy tension in the room, luxuriating in the potential for turmoil like an old god of chaos. Changretta, who looked wrinkled and mild-mannered, but Tessa knew simply by his presence that the decorum was only a mask. And the Irish man with the heavy, dark eyebrows, who she distrusted on sight alone. She had the rather unnerving thought, as she approached the wide, long table, that the cumulative total of blood on the hands of these men would leave them all drowned if it filled the room. _Theirs and mine,_ she reminded herself. Her pulse was heavy, as she sat in the chair Tommy pulled for her, and for an instant, their eyes met. _She was on her stomach in a wet, gritty alleyway, she had nothing, she had been peeled away and flesh and soul stripped bare- she had a knife in her pocket and she had everything she had power power power. Tommy’s lips and chin were streaked in crimson. She was- he was- they were- pulling triggers and watching everything on the other end of their guns fall down before them, they were pulling triggers and watching the world fall down at their feet- They were buried, forgotten, in unmarked graves in unknown lands, like the soldiers in the war. The future was before her and behind her and beside her._ Tommy’s presence was like a talisman, freezing her hard and cold as steel. Tommy believed in her, and Tommy was never wrong. She took her seat and lifted her chin and ignored the eyes and the silent voices whispering _Fraud_ and _liar_ and _silly little girl_ and clung to the truth, rushing and singing in the adrenaline flooding her veins, the decision she had made in the darkness on that street, in the pool of her own blood. You live as a monster or you die in a cage. _Predator,_ her father had said, years ago. And to her, they were all sheep. 

  
  
  


Night fell and the meeting and evening drug on. Tommy had laid it out for them as emphatically as he was capable, but no amount of dire heed would get any of them to move easily. No one wanted war. Tessa’s hand traced distracting patterns over his knee, nails trailing across his trousers, and he wished suddenly that she had worn a dress. 

“This isn’t our fight,” Changretta insisted for what must have been the thirty-second time, with a wave like he was blowing the idea up in smoke. Tommy did not bother to retrain his irritated sigh, and felt Tessa’s fingers squeeze his leg briefly under the table, a soft gesture, like he was a horse whose reins she was pulling on. The saddest part was that it actually worked. 

“It will be,” he assured, as if he was rehearsing lines. “Rockefeller and his allies are coming for the world. Germany’s reparations were never going to fucking hold. The only hope we have is to join forces and-,” 

Alfie yawned, loudly. Tommy wanted to hit him. He spread his gold-laden fingers. 

“You have the Yiddish,” he said, evenly, and Tommy was seized with a dark appreciation that Alfie had no other option than to be on his side. Given the criteria of the Perish’s prejudices. Given Colindale. Alfie made to stand, ponderously. “Now, if you don’t fuckin’ mind, right, I’d like to be heading back to civili-,” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, his mouth snapping closed and eyes narrowing like a hunting dog. Tommy heard it- the distinctive sound of an engine straining across soft sand. _If they were going to hit, now would be the time,_ Tommy thought immediately, frantically, he had been too focused on the obvious threats. Alfie had gone still, but Tessa rose, peering out the windows into the darkness. 

“Invite anyone else to this little party, Thomas?” Alfie asked, like he knew he hadn’t. 

“No fucking weapons, eh?” The Titanic boy said, speaking for the first time. “If this is a trap, Shelby, you’ll watch both your bitches die before your eyes!” Rage clouded Tommy’s vision, and Alfie, standing beside the smirking bastard, smacked the butt of his cane across the man’s face so hard Tommy heard a distinct _crack_ under the smack of impact. Even without Rockefeller’s potential arrival, this meeting was not going well. The man groaned heavily, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nose. Alfie leaned down to him. 

“Now,” he said, pleasantly, “D’you know what I’ve done? I’ve just saved your miserable little life. Cause if he’d done it, right,” he pointed at Tommy with the cane, whose end was now splattered with specks of blood, “you’d get a one way straight down. So, you can say “Thank you, Mr. Solomons, for saving me.”” The man blinked blearily, incredulous. Alfie cocked his head. “S’not that hard, is it? Go on. “Thank, you, Mr.-,” 

“Alfie,” Tommy said, and Alfie backed off, probably only because the front door had opened. Tommy stood and Chang followed his motion, pulling a knife from a hidden pocket in his waistcoat. When Tommy shot him a look, he shrugged. Changretta stirred nervously but did not rise, ready to meet his potential demise like a true gentleman. Or perhaps he didn’t want to bother with his creaky knees. There were footsteps on the stairs, more than two, the house’s saltwashed foundations creaking. Tommy moved Tessa behind him, hand on her wrist, squeezing slightly. _Wait._ The doors opened. 

The three men were all dark haired, two were thin, one was short and stocky. The one in the middle wore spectacles and seemed to be in command, or at least, the one to address. Which Tommy did, instantly. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, because whatever business veneer they had applied over this gathering had long worn off and the man was staring over his shoulder in a way that made Tommy’s hackles rise. It was an absurd thing to notice in the moment, but he could smell Tessa’s perfume. Like sunlight and spring. Then, 

“We are IRA,” the man said in a heavy, unconcerned accent, taking his time with his words and tilting his head, his eyes abandoning their search for Tessa and roaming the room, which bristled considerably. Tommy swore, but he was too late- Tessa was already pulling her gun. Well, his gun, that he had given her. He had very specifically said all _men_ were to be unarmed, but the semantics seemed to have been lost on Sabini, who spluttered angrily at her. 

“ _No fucking weapons?”_ he demanded, a finger pointed at her like a gun, 

“Fucking shut up,” Tommy commanded, the Irish man only smiled serenely down the end of the barrel leveled at him across the room. Tessa’s face was hard and pale. 

“You didn’t search her,” he said, with a keen smile and a shake of his head, “Fools. Do you not know what she is? You think a viper’s red lovely.” 

The viper in question was baring her fangs. “Spare me,” she spat, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drop you where you stand.” 

Tommy had never seen such a vicious expression on her face- he hadn’t been there for Fischer, to his great disappointment, or Richard Rockefeller, and they had been separated during Colindale. The gun he had given here was a nine millimeter and likely too heavy for her, but she held it firmly, like she trusted herself. And Tommy realized just how much time had passed since he met the girl in the hospital. He didn’t think she was different, really- just _more_ of herself, now. Stronger like a broken bone. 

“I can give you three,” the IRA man said, and on cue, he and his two colleagues pulled their weapons. They were now significantly outnumbered, with one handgun and Changretta’s little knife, but Tessa’s arm held steady, and he saw Ripper rise from a crouch at the quiet snap of her fingers. Tommy blinked, keeping himself still, coiling like a spring. The men placed their guns on the table, and raised their hands. 

“We’re here for conversation,” their leader said, “not violence.” Tessa blinked. 

“Perhaps you’ve come to the wrong place.” She did not lower her gun. Tommy wasn’t sure if he would have preferred, at this point, for his unexpected guest to have indeed been Edward Rockefeller instead. Maybe, if only for the opportunity to rip him apart. Tessa was likely to do the same to these Irish before they even got their say, and though he didn’t blame her, he realized it would be mostly his own doing if she pulled the trigger. She hated being left in the dark. Everyone did, and he kept them there on purpose. It was safer in the shadows, usually, but Tessa had a habit of stumbling into the light unprepared and still managed to beat them all at their own game. If he wanted to do this, really do it, keep her by his side and still keep her safe, he could not afford to shelter her. Not from anything. It was an epiphany come too late. The middle man only smiled and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do you know the rules of parley, lovely snake?” he asked, his thick accent smudging his words like paint. “No worthwhile understanding is often reached at the end of a barrel.” 

“Strange,” Tessa bit, and Ripper’s lip lifted in a snarl by her side, like he could hear the possibility of an attack command lurking in her tone. “That’s how all my best negotiations have ended.” Tommy saw the man’s lipless mouth twitch. 

“She has a lot to learn,” the man said to him, and Tommy ticked his head apathetically. Maybe. There was something to be said for efficiency, but he could not argue her impulsivity. He was only thankful she had removed her finger from the trigger. 

“Your men-,” she stopped, pulling her lip between her teeth. The first crack in her shield. _Show nothing,_ he wanted to tell her. _Fear exists only when it is seen._ “They were going to leave me in that alley to die.” 

She had seemed tiny, cradled in John’s arms, pale skin nearly blue. Blue and red. The man’s hands folded carefully. The other spectators in the room were watching the interaction like a tennis match, varying expressions of surprise on their faces. Changretta peered at Tessa like he was trying to see signs of wounds, and Tommy was glad he couldn’t. Nosy old fucker. 

“I apologize for your suffering,” the man said, Tessa’s expression became murderous and Tommy winced inwardly, still half-anticipating the deafening sound of a gunshot, “But they were not my men. Not any longer. Your Peaky Blinder informed us of this, but it would seem he has not paid you the same courtesy.” Tessa’s stare snapped over. The gun lowered. 

“What is he talking about?” She demanded, and Tommy didn’t respond, raising his eyebrows at the man whose name still hadn’t been revealed. He sniffed slightly and readjusted his glasses. He had a thin face, and a thinner mustache. 

“Mr. Shelby discovered that McGregor and Smith were selling their services to the highest bidder. Like whores.” He spat the word. “Making a mockery of our goals, our organization as a whole. We condemn them and their actions. There will be no honor in their deaths and no retribution for their fates.” Tommy saw Tessa process the words. She didn’t so much as glance at him, and couldn’t read her expression on her profile beside him, fine nose and skin so pale and flawless it looked like cream beside the purple bruises. 

“Who paid them?” Like the possibility of IRA retaliation meant nothing to her. She still did not look at Thomas, which he felt boded rather poorly. She did not take well to secrets, though he knew she had a few of her own. That name taunted him again, rising through his consciousness, a constant, disruptive brush of thought. _Stella._ The look in Tessa’s eyes as she had said it, like it was precious, in a way that made darkness twist in his chest. It was more than petty jealousy; it made him want to rip apart bodies and lives. It made him feel like fucking Arthur, actually, little more than a ragdoll jerked from one emotional precipice to the next. It made him _feel, she_ made him feel more than anything else on the planet. More than money or drugs or even the high after a fuck or a fight. He could barely look at her without a pang shooting through his heart, like it was trying to fight past his ribs to her. It was weakness, and he knew that. Knew it, and yet couldn’t stop. For the first time, the IRA officer hesitated. Tommy could tell just by looking at him that he and his men had served, and he met Tommy’s eyes like he knew somehow who should be the one to say it. 

“Edward Rockefeller,” Tommy dropped, flat and casual as he could, and once Tessa’s chin finally snapped around to stare at him, he found he had little desire to see the flames behind her eyes. He could feel the fight building in her like a climax, felt the way she took a step away from him. The Irish man gave an affirmative hum. 

“We desire no further conflict between our two peoples. Please accept our deepest apologies for any suffering their actions caused you.” He spoke like a politician under his heavy lilt, but if he was one, Tommy would’ve known him. Though his voice was sincere, Tessa stiffened at his words, before a mocking smile traced her lips, and Tommy was suddenly very concerned about what she would say, and more concerned that she was still holding the gun. 

“I accept them,” she told the man, “But cannot return them. I hope our mutual agreement that those men received the justice they deserved is enough.” Her words, her tone, were calculated and measured. The man nodded, once. Tessa continued, carefully. “Edward Rockefeller used your men and your influence. He will continue to do so until he and his allies are the only pieces remaining, and then he will turn on them as well. And he will have his war.” 

There was quiet. Outside, Tommy could hear the incongruously gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. The Irish man, who Tommy had mentally begun referring to as Spectacles, observed Tessa with a simmering gaze. 

“The Red Widow,” he said, head cocked in curiosity. “Wants our help spinning her web. Tell me, is Edward Rockefeller the next fly to be caught?” 

“That depends,” Tessa said, and didn’t raise her chin or square her jaw or posture. She looked almost relaxed. “On who tries to get in my way.” 

The man smiled, keen as a fox, and tapped his temple. “Not I, Miss Spider.”

“Will you help me?” She asked, for the first time, the men to Spectacle’s side shifted slightly, and Tommy wondered about the chain of command, whether the center man had the authority to make such a call on his organization’s behalf. And though he swelled with pride at Tessa’s bravery, he doubted the IRA was prone to taking on charity cases, especially if the opposing side could offer assistance to their goals. Tommy himself very deliberately avoided the question of Irish independence in politics, wary of voicing his own opinion, or lying and pissing off men such as the one stood before them. Spectacles brushed an invisible spot of lint from his suit. 

“I harbor no affections for fascists,” he said, cooly, “nor men who abuse their power by harming women. But I cannot speak for all my brothers. I will bring it to discussion.” 

“Thank you,” Tessa breathed, the first time the girl had broken through the armor plating around her. Spectacles gave another quick nod. 

“My name is Pedar O’Donnell,” he said, and Tommy cursed himself again for not knowing that, for being caught off guard. The Irish had responded to his message much more quickly than he had anticipated. He needed to discover how they had known where to find him. “I will be in touch. Enjoy the rest of your night, gentlemen,” he gave Tessa a deeper nod, like the whisper of a bow, “and lady. I apologize again for the interruption.” And then he turned and left with his men. 

  
  
  
  


The stares were very different now. Except for Alfie, of course, whose lips were pursed like he was holding back a smirk. 

“I think,” Chang said, softly, breaking the silence that had settled over the room since the republican’s departure, “That we would all like to hear this story.” He was looking at Tommy, who did not meet his eyes. He was focused on her like she was his runner in a race and he was mentally urging her on, and she thought of his words, _If my dad ever saw a filly like mine, he would’ve put every fucking penny to his name on her, too._

“Not my story to tell,” he said, idly, and took out his cigarettes. She reached for one, felt the weight of the men’s eyes as Tommy handed it to her, as he lit it for her. Then she stood, and loosened her tie. 

“Edward wants control over the company. He saw me as a bargaining chip.” She slid the tie over her head, set it on the table, set her fingers to work on the buttons of her jacket, speaking as she did. None of the men moved. “He promised leniency to the Shelby family, to all of Birmingham, if I agreed to marry him and move to America.” Her jacket followed her tie, then her waistcoat after. She felt like she was stripping off her skin instead. “I killed his brother in self defense when he tries to rape me, and was forced to return here.” The lie felt like nothing. Emmy’s secrets, Emmy’s past, were her own, and Tessa had no qualms in defending her in any way she could. Even if it meant sacrificing some of her own pride, like the clothes she removed. Her white shirt felt stiff, or maybe it was her fingers, or the hungry stares of five men. “Edward responded by killing an innocent woman, and giving me this.” She turned and let the shirt fall. It was the first day without bandages. She couldn’t wear a brassiere because of the wound, and without her long hair, it was exposed to full affect, and she knew from Alfie’s faint grunt that it was appropriately horrifying. She still hadn’t looked at it, herself. Thirty-seven stitches. “I killed one of the men who did it. Thomas dealt with the other.” She slid her shirt back up, and where it touched her spine, she felt nothing, but the edges burned like the knife, all over again. She buttoned it, and turned back around. Tommy sifted smoke up through his nose, silent and unmoving, his face held in that impenetrable mask. “When Edward comes for you, he will do the same, he will do worse, to your wives, to your daughters. He will burn and slaughter them and never spill a drop of his own blood doing it.” She slipped her tie back on and tightened it at her collar. “You have your evidence. Make your choice.” 

_2._

_COSMIC LOVE_

In the end, only the Titanic affiliate had refused his participation, and Tommy had counted him out the second he had seen the expression on his face when Tessa entered the room anyway. He had made her leave as the vote was taken, and she had not argued, which was helpful, because he knew she would have if she’d heard what he’d said after she left the room, after man after man raised their hands in favor, while the Titanic boy sulked with his arms crossed tight. She sighed deeply beside him. Ripper had curled into a deceivingly docile ball on the floor. Tommy took the last drag off his cigarette, and stood, offering her his hand. She didn’t take it. 

“”You should’ve told me about Edward,” she said, arms crossed, staring ahead. The last time she had been angry with him she had proven she had sharper aim than several snipers Tommy knew in the war. A viper indeed. He dropped his hand. 

“Yes,” he agreed, simply. That made her turn. He wasn’t accustomed to the hair, and he never wanted to be with the bruises. 

“Am I hallucinating again, or was that almost an apology?” 

“I have my regrets, Tess,” He told her, carefully, taking in the lines of her fine nose, her plush lips. “What did you mean, ‘again’?” 

She hesitated. Her finger drew lazy circles on the tabletop, but her eyes were on the sky behind the windows. “I saw my mother. I thought I did. The night they took me. I think that’s why I cut my hair.” She did not elaborate on the connection or the news. 

Tommy knew with utter certainty that with anyone else, in a similar moment, he would say the complete and utterly wrong thing. He cleared his throat. 

“Well, if you see my sister next time, tell her Tommy says hello,” he said, and a smile crept across Tessa’s face like a sunrise. 

“Prick,” she said softly, and he hummed and held out his hand again. 

“Come on,” he said, and he saw her consider asking where, but she slid her fingers between his anyway and rose. The contact felt intimate, like a declaration, like he had won back one of the millions of pieces of her that he had lost somewhere between killing their baby and letting her run off with another man, situation be damned. He would not do so again. It was likely just a result of the glow on her cheeks from their success. 

“I hope there’s food wherever you’re taking me,” he heard her mutter from behind him, as they reached the front door. He kept his eyes ahead of him so she wouldn’t see his smile. 

“I promised you dinner, didn’t I?” was all he said, and at the indignant, childlike huff she made, his smile widened. 

  
  
  
  


There was a soldier named Al in the war, and to Tommy, he had seemed old. Old Al, they called him. Barely made the draft, he said, wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Occasionally, the men became like that. Like Arthur, but without conscience. They loved it, craved it, had no qualms about showing it. “It’s the mud, boy,” Phineas had said, and Tommy had hated him for calling him that but didn’t speak, just slammed his shovel back down into the muck. “It gets in your hair first. Then your clothes. Then your blood. Soon enough, can’t wash it clean. Till your veins run black with it.” Then he had laughed, spitting out chewing tobacco. Back then, Tommy had still found all of it repulsive, had found the other man equally so. He kept digging. 

_  
  
  
_

It was an exceptionally beautiful night. The stars were clear and shining, jewels strewn over a velvet cloth. The waves lapped at the shore and mixed with the calls of the seagulls like quiet music. Tommy had even laid out a blanket, which amused her. 

“I never took you for the picnicking type,” she confessed, and Tommy leaned back on his elbows. 

“Why not?” he asked, and Tessa smiled, wondering what she was hungrier for, him or the food. 

“Because I’ve met you?” she said, playfully, and she felt a swooping flutter in her stomach when he smiled back, which worsened when he pulled a bottle out of the basket. Not champagne, but vodka. Looking at him was like seeing through the grime coating an ancient masterpiece. Suddenly it hit her in the chest, the beauty at his center. 

“You remembered,” she said, “you’ve always remembered about… the champagne. I only told you that once. But I… thank you. For remembering.” The words were paling and flimsy and all she could manage. Tommy met her eyes and nodded, shadows dripping across his bones like paint.

“So I was right ,” she said, because otherwise she was going to kiss him, “Not a purity picknick after all. Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Shelby?” 

“If it helps me chances,” he replied, and as she looked at him, he winked. She laughed, and a smile warmed his eyes. In the darkness, she couldn’t see the blue, just the bright gleam of them. They looked like the stars. Then he said, as if deciding it was time to move on, 

“The IRA want something. Even if they didn’t send those men. They weren’t happy about closing those fucking tradelines, they’re not just going to give them up. Me money’s on them trying to get your help reopening ‘em.” 

Tessa sifted her fingers through the cool sand, the particles soft and rough and calming against her sore thumb. “What were you trading with them?” 

_  
  
_

She waited as he decided whether to tell her. 

“Cocaine.” She snorted softly, as if amused. “Churchill knew, didn’t give a fuck, just didn’t want them having access to the revenue from selling it. There were other exports, but even bloody Ireland’s soil isn’t foreign enough to risk shipping weapons domestic.”

Tessa laughed again. It was a lovely noise, but he hadn’t the slightest what had caused it, and didn’t much care. He would have happily sat and listened to her laugh on that beach for eternity, for the rest of his life. 

“Tommy,” she said, still smiling, “you’ll never guess who I met last year on his yacht in Miami. His name is Alphonse. And the only thing he loves more than his family is money.” She gave him a pointed look that he only blinked at. 

“Right,” he drawled, “the socialite with a double life.” A tendril of wavy red hair brushed against her cheeks in the faint breeze off the water, the moon lit as a lazy sun in the sky, burning like electricity. “You want to run drugs?” 

She only lifted a slim shoulder. “Sure,” was all she said. Tommy gave an amused scoff and ticked his fingers. 

“Alright. Set up a phone call.” Sometimes when he looked away from her he was afraid she would vanish into thin air, that she had never really come back at all. 

_  
  
  
  
  
_

“I think,” Tessa said, contemplatively, nursing a twirling cigarette and nursing her Coca-Cola, a piss poor excuse of a joke which had taken Tessa all of two seconds to register before she said, “This had better be the original recipe,” which had made him laugh. “That my happiest day was probably some birthday I don’t remember as a child.” It had taken her a long time to answer, a wistful expression on her face, and she didn’t realize he was searching for clues. “When my family was together. Before everything went to shit.” Her smooth forehead was creased with a sadness that felt like it had gravity. “What about you?”

“Maybe it hasn’t happened yet,” he said, crossing his ankles where his legs were stretched out before him. Tessa rested her chin on her knee and rolled her eyes at his faux optimism. “I didn’t get to marry you.”

She stilled, and her eyes flickered away. She took a sip of her drink. “Or kill Edward.” 

“Close second.” He could hear the stutter of her breath. She was rubbing her thumb. 

“Do it. Get rid of him. You have my blessing.” Her words were sardonic, but her eyes were lost, so,

“The day Ada was born,” he told her, the only person he could tell. “They were all so fucking happy. Mum had always wanted a girl. Dad stole some fireworks and lit them off, spent the night in the clink because of it. Mum acted pissed, but she told the story ‘bout a hundred fuckin' times.” 

Tommy wished he was drinking something stronger, and he’d never much cared for sweets, but Tessa had insisted. “I eat your bloody crumpets,” she had told him. The sea hushed them into silence. Ada’s name drifted like her ghost across the waves. 

“I miss her,” Tessa said, softly. 

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He sat up to move beside her, remembered Ada’s reaction when he had left Tessa at the farmhouse. Standing there bloodied in her underwear, shouting at him at the top of her lungs, “ _Tommy Shelby, that girl is your salvation, and you just spit in God’s eye!_ _She saved my life, you thickheaded prat! Go phone her before she sees sense!_ ” But he had wanted her to see sense. To forget him, forget his name, forget everything he had done to her. So he hadn’t called. He lit another cigarette. They had plenty. Tessa took a drag, filtered the smoke through her nose. Michael _had_ taught her that. Tommy had figured it out one day from the look on Michael’s face when he implied it, an insolent sort of stare. Tommy would let Michael play house with his mousy haired American victim as long as it distracted him from what wasn’t his. What wasn’t anyone’s. 

“You know,” Tessa said, so quietly he hardly heard her, soft as the darkness, “every night before I fall asleep, if I fall asleep, I promise myself I’ll be someone new in the morning. I’ll be something new. And every day I wake up and I’m still myself, and I still make the same choices, and everything… everything comes back again until I can’t breathe.” She swallowed tightly, and shook her head. She was looking at the water when she said, “Sometimes it feels like you’re the only other real person in the world, and everyone else are just… dolls.” 

“God made us out of loneliness.” She turned to him, all plump lips and a face like a magazine. 

“That’s why we’re the same,” she said, a whisper, like a curse or a prayer. “You don’t believe in anything, either.” 

He moved carefully closer, watched her lovely lips part. 

“Says who?” He asked her, and a tiny, fragile smile crossed her face, and she met him halfway, until they were inches apart, both of their breathing shallow. He reached up a hand and brushed the tendril of hair behind her ear, felt the strangeness of its new length, the lurching familiarity of its texture. “I looked for you.” Silence rang in his ears. She blinked. “Every second of every day. Over my shoulder. Across the street. In fucking pubs and clubs and in my dreams. Not in America, because if you had gone there, you didn’t want me to find you. Didn’t want me. So I just fucking… waited. I always was.” He brushed his mouth against the curve of her ear. “You’re perfect, Tessa.” He could feel her pulse against his fingers, and he pulled back, his hand cupped against her neck. 

“I really shouldn’t tell you this,” she said, her voice shaky, “but you were voted Birmingham’s Most Eligible Bachelor in some gossip mag.”

“Is that so?” Tommy asked, and for once, he didn’t manage his cocky, impassive tone. 

“Yeah,” Tessa conformed, her smile was fleeting like a butterfly. 

“Anything else you shouldn’t tell me?” 

She was looking right at him. She didn’t break away as she nodded, very barely. 

“Yeah,” she said, again, more weight in the casual word than Tommy had ever heard before. He wanted, longed, fucking prayed for it. 

“Do it anyway.” And when she spoke, it might as well have been a choir or angles. 

“I love you, Tommy,” she told him, and when he closed the distance between them without a second of thought, that feeling engulfed him, a golden glow. 

_  
  
  
_

He kissed her softly, and she tasted of sugar and ash, her fingers cupping his cheek. They pulled back, and he rested his forehead against hers, felt the grains of sand he had left when he had touched her hair. 

“Good,” he said, and stood. 

“What are you doing?” She asked, perplexed, as he removed a shoe. 

“Take your shirt off,” he said, “We’re going swimming.” 

“That’s alright,” she hummed. “I quite like my current view.” 

Tommy smirked as he undid his tie, which only weakened her resolve. “So did all the men who watched your little performance earlier.” He was carefully folding his tie, which she found endearing, until he squatted down and undid the clasp of her heel. “You did well today,” he said, slipping the shoe off her foot, the moment she had considered using it to kick him. 

“Some women bake,” Tessa said, shrugging. “We all have our hobbies.” 

She felt the breath of Tommy’s laugh on her knee as he moved to the other heel.

**Author's Note:**

> EXTRA STUFF WOOOO:
> 
> Playlist for this book:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66ci2uzw7NC2muDoVnTcnt
> 
> Tommy, Tessa, and the brothers:  
> Tommy- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Bf2DwJKLnEXHtDcPrJOnx  
> Tessa- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sojtflOAcPMLxBfPNe4xb  
> Peaky Boys- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7nwTXhZf3GoZ8AeMPNtTlm
> 
> Moodboards:
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/preying/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/evol/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/broken/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/raign/
> 
> and you can hit me up on tumblr whenever to say whatever, its 3xc3lsior !!! would loveee to hear from u guys
> 
> adore you!!! and, as always, thank you endlessly for your support xoxo


End file.
